Dean's Totally Awesome AU Ye Olde Pirate Werewolf Chasing Adventure!
by Lampito
Summary: This is a story about, er, well, about Dean having a Totally Awesome AU Ye Olde Pirate Werewolf Chasing Adventure, sailing off in the Impala to rescue his brother, who's been kidnapped by... an unattractive woman! *horrified gasp!* Outrageously overblown, with much melodrama and plenty of positively purple pirate prose. With added Gratuitous Winchester Nudity. FINALLY COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

This wretched little plot bunny, named Dirty Miranda, was only supposed to dictate a couple of chapters of truly overblown, melodramatic purple prose in the style of Bulwer-Lytton (he of 'It was a dark and stormy night' notoriety) to be included as part of another story, 'Who's The Wincest Of Them All?'. (A story within a story - ficception?)

The problem is, this wretched raconteurial rabbit now won't shut up, and insisted on dictating at least another chapter, and hopping around hinting at more to come. Aaaaaargh! And the sad reality is, the only way to exorcise a plot bunny is to write down what it says.

And so, against my better judgement but in an attempt to retrieve some of my sanity, I present the continuation of...

 **Dean's Totally Awesome AU Ye Olde Swashbuckling Pirate Werewolf Chasing Adventure!***

 ***** With added melodrama, archaic vocabulary and Gratuitous Winchester Nudity. It's bound to go down as a classic of appalling fan fiction.

 **Rating:** T. Because there's Dean. And Pirates. And Dean.

 **Blame:** Lies with the Denizens who unrepentantly encouraged this plot bunny.

 **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, I just make 'em walk the plank into the jello wrestling pit and let the fangirls do the rest.

* * *

 **Chapter One**

Captain Dean Winchester strolled out of the establishment known as _Nevada_ , giving a cocky salute to the madam as he left. Two of her employees waved from a window, simpering after him. Madame Amanda, the proprietor of the establishment, took them to task, but with a smile on her face – the personable and handsome young mariner with a smile that would tempt a saint was a favourite at her bath house when he was ashore, and there was always much sighing and cooing over the sprinkling of freckles that the sun and sea air inevitably left across his high cheekbones. Indeed, she had hardly found it in her heart to scold them when she'd caught two of them peeking at him through a chink in the deal boards while he'd taken a bath, admiring the play of honed muscle under tanned skin as he whistled happily and lathered himself up, scrubbing away the grime of a long sea voyage, then giggling at the cascade of water over his lithe and virile body as he rinsed himself off afterwards.

He was whistling still as he made his way through London, barely pausing when a couple of footpads emerged from a stinking alley to shadow him and attempt to relieve him of the bounty of his last voyage – however, looks could be deceiving, and Dean Winchester was no fop: one was sent reeling into a wall by an arm taut with corded muscle won by hard work aboard ship, and the other felt the tickle of a dagger to his throat before letting out a shriek and legging it. Dean laughed – they were not the first to discover that he was a lot more dangerous than he looked, and no doubt they would not be the last.

He continued to his destination, a favourite tavern, the _Harvelle's Arms_ , where he found two of his senior crewmates already sharing a drink, and apparently deep in serious conversation.

"Well, don't you just smell like the inside of a Turkish brothel," growled Bobby Singer, the grizzled and grumpy Quartermaster of the _Impala_.

"And how exactly would you know what the inside of a Turkish brothel smells like, old man?" Dean shot back breezily. He was ashore again, with treasure in his strong room and gold in his pockets, and he refused to let Bobby's habitual grumbling ruin his evening.

"I sailed them waters when you were just your Pater's cabin boy, playin' with his spyglass and gettin' under the carpenter's feet," Bobby humphed, "And you smell just like one of their wimmen."

"In the Barbary lands, it is customary to visit the hamam, the bath, several times a week," intoned Castiel Godson, the serious-faced First Mate of the _Impala_ and Dean's best friend. "They believe that purity of the body promotes purity of the soul. Although they are heretics, the philosophy has much to recommend it." Having visited the stews himself for a thorough washing after a six-month voyage, he turned a disapproving eye on Bobby. "It is not so much that he smells of anything as he now no longer smells unwashed."

"Don't you berate me about cleanliness, you damned Puritan," Bobby muttered, "Aint safe for a body to sit in all that water. Unhealthy for the pores. I got washed when I was baptised, I'll get washed afore I'm buried. That's all the washin' a Christian man needs. Besides, there was that storm three weeks ago, that gave everybody a more thorough washin' than the Good Lord ever intended."

"A pirate's bath is the only one Bobby will ever take, Castiel, you know that," Dean grinned and gestured to the keeper of the tavern, "Now, tell me, why is it that we are back from a successful voyage, yet I find you both with the appearance of men on their way to Tyburn? Ellen, fetch me a bottle of your best grog to cheer these two up."

"Show me your coin first, you pirate," growled the woman who kept the tavern.

"Why, Ellen, you wound me," replied Dean in a hurt voice. "I am no pirate, but a privateer loyal to His Majesty's desires and interests. Why, I carry his Letter of Marque. Castiel here could read it to you."

"It is not a lack of strong drink that distresses us," commented Castiel in his usual serious tone, "But the receipt of most uncomfortable intelligence."

Bobby's face darkened, and Dean realised that his grumpiness was covering real concern. "Dean," he began, "We got some bad news. About your brother, Sam."

Dean was immediately on the alert. "What?" he demanded, immediately concerned for his younger brother, who was serving on a Navy vessel. "What has happened? Tell me!"

"A number of weeks ago, your brother's ship, the _Stanford_ , and her sister ship the _Chevrolet_ saw action against a buccaneer," Bobby told him, "But they were bested – the _Chevrolet_ went to the bottom with all hands, and the _Stanford_ was left a wreck, with no more than a handful of survivors, slowly sinkin', and if a passing merchantman hadn't chanced upon 'em, they'd have vanished without trace."

Dean staggered and sat down heavily, the sudden wave of dizziness washing over him having nothing to do with him still recovering his land legs. "Sam," he croaked, his face a picture of vulnerable yet manly distress, "Sam, my brother, was he… was he…"

Castiel and Bobby exchanged a look. "He was not aboard the Stanford when the merchant vessel spotted her," he said gravely, but he hurried to continue as Dean's face drained of colour, grabbing his friend's shoulder. "Dean, your brother did not die. He was gravely wounded, and taken prisoner by the buccaneer, but he did not die."

Dean's face drew into a snarl. "Incompetent idiots!" he growled, "Those Navy wretches, they are incompetent idiots! Incompetent, vainglorious knaves and wretches! Appointed rank according to who their connections are, and how much they can pay for a commission! Most of 'em are not fit to skipper a manure scow, d'you hear me?" He turned a savage visage to his shipmate and began to stalk up and down along the bar, like a wolf preparing to spring upon its prey. "Fools who could not secure a two-against-one victory, and now my brother is abducted, and subject to who knows what fate, pressed into serving aboard a pirate vessel, sold into slavery…what vessel?" he demanded. "What vessel sank my brother's ship and abducted him?"

Bobby and Castiel exchanged a look. "There is some… conjecture about the vessel involved," Castiel eventually said carefully.

"Conjecture?" scoffed Dean, baring his teeth, "Conjecture? Either there was another vessel, or there was not. Or perhaps there is suggestion that God Himself struck these ships from the ocean? Davy Jones himself appeared, sailing in a ship of bones, and claimed them, perhaps?"

"The survivors were not best able to give a concise account of the action," Castiel went on, giving a distinct impression of a man standing too close to a cannon that has been lit, but has not yet fired.

"Not best able to… well, by thunder, why not?" raged Dean, "Have those useless fops and milksops of the Navy not thought to question them? Sons of dogs, I'll do it myself if I have to!"

"That would not be advisable," Castiel continued, with the maddening patience that he often showed in the face of his captain's rashness.

"And why not?" Dean rounded on his First Mate.

"Because, you idjit," Bobby snapped, cutting in to derail Dean's angry tirade, "Because, one of 'em is in Haslar, dyin' of his wounds, and the other two are in Bedlam."

The crack of the old man's voice brought Dean up short. "Bedlam?"

"They have been committed to Bethlem Hospital," confirmed Castiel, "They were raving, and they were clearly rendered unsound of mind by their experience."

Dean sat down heavily, and dropped his head into his hands. "How am I to find my brother?" he asked in a small voice, "If I cannot even find tell of the vessel that has taken him, where do I begin my search?... what?" His face hardened as Castiel and Bobby exchanged a look. "What is it? Tell me!"

"Son, you have to understand, the two men in Bedlam, they aint right in their minds," Bobby began, "So what they were supposed to be sayin, it aint necessarily anything except the product of a lunatic mind."

"Anything," Dean said earnestly, "Anything that could give me a clue. What did they say?"

"Well, there was tell," Bobby swallowed, "There was tell that they claimed their vessels closed with, and were bested by… the _She-Wolf_."

Dean groaned as if he was in pain, and Ellen came from behind the bar, a concerned expression on her tired face. "Here," she placed a tankard at his elbow, "Drink this."

He took a long swig of grog, and sighed in defeat. "The _She-Wolf_ is a myth, a phantom," he peered into the drink then took another long draught. "There is no such ship." A small smile found its way onto his face. "Sam said that on the last vessel where he served as a midshipman, the Master used to tell the youngest ones that if they did not learn their lessons and perfect their navigation, he would make an offering to the Witch of the Sea, and summon the _She-Wolf_ , so they might be borne away and devoured by her monstrous captain."

"And yet, reports of sightings and encounters of this vessel persist," Castiel pointed out.

"Aye, they do," confirmed Ellen, "I have kept this tavern longer than I care to remember, and for many years, seamen, from many countries, have spoken of her. Strange, wild tales, incredible things.

"Drunk men will say all sorts of things," Dean sighed.

"In vino veritas," Castiel intoned. "In wine is the truth. Get a man drunk enough, and he will say what he is really thinking."

"Especially if he thinks it will prompt his audience to buy him more grog to encourage his entertaining fictions," Dean snapped.

"Castiel is right," Ellen insisted, "Men from the known corners of the world drink in my tavern, it's known I'm one of the finest brewers in London, and thought the tales may be difficult to credit, yet there are things that recur in the tellings."

"I have heard such tales," Bobby nodded thoughtfully. "Stories of the kind that men to tell when the night is dark and the wind is howling. How the _She-Wolf_ prowls the seas, lookin' for men to steal away. They say her captain is a monster, deformed and hideous. She's crewed by men who have the heads of dogs. A pack of wild dogs fight with the crew to take a vessel. I have heard tell," his voice broke into a chuckle, "That her captain is a woman. And a powerful ugly one, at that."

"So, this ship, she does exist, and yet she does not," scoffed Dean. "How is a man to tell what amongst the tales is true, and what is not?"

Before anyone else could answer him, a low voice, as much of a growl as a voice, answered from the shadows behind him.

"All of it is true, yet none of it is true."

Ellen turned an exasperated expression to the figure in the corner. "Now, don't you go distressing my customers," she said firmly, pouring another tankard and placing it before the mysterious figure. "Keep your peace, and enjoy a quiet drink."

Dean turned and studied the man. A seaman, by his boots, his dress and his weapons, though his face was hidden in the recesses of a hood. "And who might you be, then? Don't skulk back there, sirrah, show yourself!"

The figure made another sound that resembled a growl.

"Andrew," Ellen began warningly, "What have I told you? I beg pardon for him," she turned back to Dean and his crewmates, "He is a sailor like yourselves, a ship's Master of long experience, but he has been sorely wounded, and his experience has left him… touched."

"Touched?" It came out as a sharp bark of amusement. "Touched, is it? Is that what you'd call it?" The stranger stood, and made his way into the circle of yellowed lantern light. "If it's the _She-Wolf_ you seek, Captain, then I can tell you that she's real," he said. "Aye, she's as real as you or me or your damned Puritan standing there."

Castiel reached out to put a calming hand on Dean's arm as his Captain reached for his cutlass. "If you have intelligence of this vessel, we would be grateful for all detail you would vouchsafe," he said in a calm and polite tone. "My Captain fears for the safety of his brother, who, it is reported, was abducted by the crew of the _She-Wolf_ after his own vessel was disabled."

"And well he might," the man Ellen named as Andrew chuckled unkindly, "For if the _She-Wolf_ has him, he is seized on the direct orders of her captain."

"Wherefore?" demanded Dean, his hand straying to the hilt of his weapon again, "What is his design? Does he seek crew members, or captives to sell for Barbary gold?"

"Neither," replied the mysterious Andrew. "For the captain is a woman, and if your brother is a young and handsome man like you, Captain, she has taken him for one thing, and one thing only: she seeks a mate."

Dean gawped at the fellow, then laughed out loud. "A mate, you say?" he guffawed, as Bobby chuckled and Castiel smiled behind his hand, while Ellen rolled her eyes and muttered a prayer for patience, "She has taken him as a _mate_? Well, that should be a sight to see indeed! For I would pay good coin to see a woman attempt to force herself upon my brother. Indeed, I would pay a woman good coin to see a her force herself upon my brother, even a rampant pirate queen, for he is shy and virginal as a maid, and it would benefit him mightily to spend an evening in congress with a woman, and I tell him so as oft as I may…"

"She is not just a woman," Andrew snarled, "It is true that she is deformed and hideous, scarred and monstrous."

"Ah, Ellen is right," Dean wiped tears of genuine amusement from his eyes. "Poor fellow, you are touched. Here," he placed a heavy silver coin on the bar, "Drink on me tonight. And tell me more of your fabulous tale. You are more amusing than the most canny playwrights, and their fancy recitations. Come, most entertaining fellow," Dean seated himself, "I need cheering tonight. Tell me the tale of how you come to know so much about this beastly she-captain."

"There be not much to tell," growled Andrew, stepping into the light, and pulling back his hood.

The others gasped as the lantern's mantle revealed a face that had once been handsome, but had been disfigured as if by monstrous claws: the scars ran the length of his face, passing through the milky dead eye and into the long golden hair just starting to grey.

"I know this," Andrew seemed to take amusement from the shock on his audience's faces, "Because I was once her captive and I displeased her." He pushed the coin across the bar, towards Ellen's white face. "But you have offered to buy me drink, and so it is a fair trade that I shall tell you what I can."

* * *

Deary deary me. From here it can only get worse. Maybe if I get enough reviews I can sell them on eBay and use the money to buy a mop to swab up any fangirl drooling...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

As Sam Winchester slowly clawed his way back to wakefulness, he became fuzzily aware of two things: he was not dead, he was not in his own tiny bunk aboard the _Stanford,_ and everything ached more than was really necessary.

Three things, then.

That, however, happened to be about as much as his fogged brain could cope with at once, so he let himself slide back into darkness…

Some time later, he gingerly opened one eye, and tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to focus. The familiar slow rocking of deep water let him know he was on board a ship, and the cabin, which was ridiculously spacious compared to the cramped nook he shared with another young lieutenant on his own vessel, was neatly squared away. Gingerly, he tried turning his head, but the pain that shot through his shoulder forced a hissing grimace from him.

"Ah, it lives!" said a low accented voice with some amusement. "Welcome back to the land of the living, lad."

Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the pain, Sam made himself turn his head, and tried to focus on the indistinct figure. "Doct…" his voice rasped, so he swallowed and tried again. "Doctor Douglas?"

The voice chuckled again. "I'm no Lowlander, lad," it said, "But I'll overlook it this one time, since 'tis a fact that you English cannae tell us apart."

Sam blinked, trying to clear his vision. The figure resolved into a tired-looking but smiling man, mid-fifties perhaps, wearing dress that suggested he was a gentleman, but not a seaman. "Fear not, I am qualified, Aberdeen and Edinburgh," he added. "Och, now stop that," his face became concerned and he reached out a hand as Sam tried to sit up but then collapsed back to the bed with a gasp of pain, his wide tanned chest heaving with the effort. "Ye're healing fast, but I'm no miracle worker." He turned to a small sideboard, and mixed something in a tankard. "Here," he held the cup for Sam, "Drink this."

Sam was about to protest, demand to know what was happening, when a wonderful scent hit his nose; the liquid in the cup tasted even better than it smelled, and he gulped it down, before letting his head fall back with a sigh.

"That is… a most wonderful drink," he managed, his voice rough, "Is it a spiced cordial, from the Indies?"

"It is medicinal, and will help you heal," the man – the doctor? – said firmly. "With herbal ingredients. Including laudanum. So get some sleep now."

To Sam, that seemed like a capital idea…

When next he woke, he still felt disoriented, but more clear-headed and less like he'd been keel-hauled. The cabin pulled into focus more quickly, and he was able to raise himself on one elbow. A heavily built man in the garb of a common seaman sat at the table, working intently on something. A name, Sam thought, there was a name. If he could just remember it…

"Doctor Douglas?" he asked tentatively, alarmed to hear the rasping quality of his own voice, "Doctor… no, it wasn't him…"

The voice was even more of a shock, for it was that of a woman. "Well, you have the right country, if nothing else," she said, standing up. "But it is Doctor McGregor who has attended you these past two watches. He has other duties also, and has left me to watch you."

Sam blinked. "Why, you are no mariner, you are a woman!"

There was a genuine laugh. "Neptune's balls, we have a sharp one here."

Sam frowned. "Well, 'tis clear you are a woman, but you are no lady," he commented disapprovingly.

"That I am not." She turned towards him, and he let out an audible gasp.

It was indeed a woman, but no beauty she: middle-aged, with a muscled build, and a face that had not been attractive before it was extensively scarred down the left side. Nonetheless, it managed to produce a brilliant smile.

"So, Lieutenant, do you have a name?" she asked, appearing to take amusement from his shock and discomfiture.

"I could ask you the same thing, madam," he shot back, not liking her tone at all; she addressed him in far too familiar a fashion than was appropriate, for he was an officer in His Majesty's Navy and she was some doctor's maidservant – and they had most certainly not been properly introduced at all.

The question made her smile again. "Oh, few people use my name," she told him, "Mostly they just refer to me as The Old Woman. Except for Doctor McGregor."

"And what does he call you?" asked Sam icily.

"Oh, 'Idiot Child', usually," she shrugged. "Amongst other things in his native tongue, which I will not translate in the presence of a gentleman such as yourself." He winced as a jab of pain shot through his shoulder, and at once she was at his side, the smile gone and replaced with concern. "Lie down, please," she continued in a completely different tone, "You were badly wounded, and though you are recovering your injuries may yet give you some pain. I will pour you more houndswort."

"Is that what it is called?" he asked as she turned to the pitcher that was still on the sideboard. "I remember… yes, Doctor Douglas poured it for me… no, not Douglas, Doctor McGregor, for Doctor Douglas is ship's surgeon aboard the _Stanford_ …

Like a cannonball punching through a hull, recollection came crashing back onto him.

 _The look-out spotting the lone vessel flying no flag, and the captain of the Chevrolet ordering that she be taken, then beating to quarters and running out the guns, the ship turning and trying to run but she was low in the water with cargo, the two men-of-war manoeuvred to steal her wind, closing in and preparing to board, Stanford putting a volley of cannon into her stern, then with no way to escape she'd turned to fight, presenting her broadside to the fast-closing warships…_

 _Then all Hell had broken loose._

 _The strange vessel had fired two salvos in the time a well-drilled Navy crew might manage one on a good day, then Stanford's own guns replied, and as the vessels closed there was the chaos of battle, gunsmoke obscuring nearly everything and the stink of blood and bowels, the angry cries and dying screams as the hulls crashed together, then the shouts of anger and bloodlust turned to horror as His Majesty's men found that they were not fighting against men, but, but, it was impossible, then there was a shriek of grapeshot and the world exploded into agony…_

Pain shot through his shoulder as he emptied the pitiful contents of his stomach into the chamber pot beside the bunk, the scarred woman holding his arm and keeping his hair back from the bilious mess.

"The _Chevrolet_ ," he sputtered, coughing and wheezing and choking on the taste of bile, "My vessel, the _Stanford_ …"

"I am sorry," she said quietly, wiping at his face with a damp cloth as if he was a child, "I am so sorry. They are both lost."

The clean cut features of his handsomely boyish face formed into a heart-rending expression of distress and loss. "Their crews?" He heard his own voice break.

Her face was sorrowful. "Lost," she repeated. "The fighting was ruthless, and bloody. Those we could, we committed to the sea, decently shrouded. Dr McGregor read the Burial Service." She smiled. "You, we nearly missed. You were badly wounded, and caught under a tangle of rigging, and if it hadn't been for the good doctor, you might have gone down with your ship."

Sam lay back, his head spinning and a cold clenched knot of horror in his chest. The _Stanford_ and the _Chevrolet_ , both lost. With their crews. It was impossible to accept, impossible to believe.

 _they were not fighting against men_

Near two thousand men, some of them his friends, gone. Two warships had closed with what looked like a corsair, and

 _they were not fighting against men_

now, they were just… gone.

"Who is Dean?" asked the woman, breaking into his thoughts.

His eye's stung at the mention of his brother's name, and he told himself sternly that an officer of His Majesty's Navy did not cry for his big brother, no matter how bad the situation was. "That is my brother's name," he replied in a tightly controlled voice. "Why do you ask me about that name?"

"You called for him in your sleep," she replied, with another small smile.

"Well, he is not here now," Sam told her crossly, "And you might inform me, madam, where exactly 'here' is."

Her eyebrows rose. "Indeed? you would converse with me after all, though I am clearly no lady and we have not been introduced?" Her chuckle was amused, but held no rancour as she stepped back and offered him a bow. "Veronica Aoire", she said, "A woman, but no lady, as you have so intelligently determined."

"Era?" Sam repeated, trying to reproduce the unfamiliar word. "Irish, then."

"On my father's side," she smiled, "And you pronounce it well. For an Englishman. And how would you have me address you? 'Lieutenant' seems so terribly stuffy and formal, and truly, you do not appear to me to be the foppish type, of which the Navy seems to have so many."

"It would be appropriate, under the circumstances," he told her primly.

There was a flare of the hot temper for which her father's people were notorious. "Judas priest, man, will you have me scatter rose petals before you as you walk?" she demanded. "I know your name is Winchester." From the sideboard, she took a small object and slapped it down on the bed beside him. "But I tell you, give me a name I can use, you thunderin' _amadan_ , or I'll choose one for you, and I suspect you will not like it!"

Sam stared at the item she had given him. It was his own, his most prized possession amongst the meagre belongings that he took to sea. A folding knife, small and plain but with a blade of good Toledo steel. It was a present from his brother, given to him when he left their father's vessel to take his first voyage as a midshipman. 'S. WINCHESTER' was carefully carved into the wood, and Sam treasured it, thinking of the time and effort that Dean, who had not taken to scholarship as easily as his little brother, would have spent making the knife a special reminder for him to carry always.

At the thought of his big brother, the anger went out of him. "Samuel," he replied. "Lieutenant Samuel Winchester, of His Majesty's Royal Navy."

"Well then, Lieutenant Samuel Winchester," Veronica replied, pouring more of the delicious medication into a tankard, "I would say it was a pleasure to meet you, but under the grievously sad circumstances of our meeting, I shall drink to your health." She poured a second tankard for herself, and raised it to him. "Bonum sanitatem."

He lowered his own drink – it really was most delicious, especially given that it was a medicinal preparation. "You speak Latin?" he asked in surprise.

The smile she turned on held the same childish delight as the most cheeky grin from one of the Stanford's young powder monkeys. "Oh! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum." _(Was I speaking Latin again? I am so foolish.)_

"I had not thought to find an educated woman upon a merchant vessel," Sam mused.

"Oh, I am not at all educated," she laughed, "I am as ignorant of learned men's concerns as the bowfish that run before us in the warmer latitudes. Should you wish to practise Greek, then Iain – Doctor McGregor – will be pleased to converse with you, and may even lend you some of his books. He will speak with you of the most recent theories in medicine and natural philosophy. Nay, some might suggest that he will speak at you. In detail. At length. Veronica's face took on a stoic expression. "It was the express wish and command of my grandmother, my father's mother," she answered. "She was as fearsome as she was loving, and none would gainsay her."

"You are a most surprising person, Mistress Aoire," Sam commented, finishing his own excellent drink, "In your dress, your manners, and now your speech. Had I not seen you close to, and spoken to you, I might have mistaken you for a man."

"You would not be the first to make such an error," she replied easily, and he thought he detected a minute undertone of threat, "Do not distress yourself, for I take no offence at that. My garb and my manner are practical, which is most appropriate on board a ship at sea, as you are no doubt aware yourself as a seagoing officer."

"Indeed," sighed Sam, trying not to think of the difficulty of keeping the more tiresome parts of his uniform clean enough and white enough and starched enough to pass the senior officers' most stern assessments. "Such an approach has much to recommend it. If you are not an officer, or a pirate."

"Indeed," she echoed him with a small smile.

A shadow crossed Sam's face; speaking of clothing suddenly brought a most uncomfortable aspect of his situation to his notice.

"Speaking of such matters," Sam continued, his boyish face flushing ever so slightly at even having to raise the subject obliquely with a woman, "May I speak to your doctor again?"

"He does have other duties," Veronica reminded him, "Is there something I may do for you?"

Sam felt the blood rush to his face. "Not decently," he stated firmly. "May I speak to his manservant?"

"He has an assistant, but he is with the doctor," she replied. "Truly, if there is anything concerning you, I will help if I can."

He fixed her with what he hoped was an authoritative gaze. "Madam, I should not discuss the matter with his maidservant, it would not be seemly."

Veronica's eyebrows shot up. "That should present no difficulty," she suggested, "As I am myself entirely unseemly. Iain certainly tells me so regularly.

"Madam," Sam felt his ears begin to burn and his temper begin to rise, "It is not something to be discussed by myself with you."

She gave him a long, level look, then nudged the chamber pot with one foot out to where he could see it. "I shall leave you alone for five minutes," she said quietly.

"It's not that!" he snapped, ignoring the sting of pain from his shoulder as he sat up, pulling the bedclothes around himself, struggling to wrap the sheet around his broad shoulders without exposing any more of his tall and impressive physique, becoming ever more acutely aware of the mortifying situation in which he found himself.

"Well, what on Earth is it?" Veronica shot back, appearing both perplexed and annoyed. "Spit it out, man, I too have other duties requiring my attention."

Sam took a deep breath. "It is the matter of… my attire," he said.

"What of it?"

"I cannot help but notice that I am not wearing any!" he burst out.

"Well, of course you don't have any," Veronica actually rolled her eyes Heavenward, "You were struck by splinters! Your garments were shredded, along with the flesh beneath them! They were blood-soaked rags, fit for nothing but feeding the sharks."

"I should not even be alone with you in this condition," he stated.

She cocked her head and stared at him. "How can you be alone, if you are here with me?" she asked.

"That is not… it is not proper," he said through clenched teeth, "For a man to be in a state of… undress, with a woman he does not even know."

"Have we not introduced ourselves?" she seemed genuinely puzzled by his discomfiture.

Sam's temper broke. "Madam, I am stark naked!" he roared.

"Of course you are," she agreed amiably, "After all, I could not have washed you if you were not."

Sam's eyes bugged as he spluttered, unable to find a reply.

"Good grief, man, you were covered in blood, and soot and Lord knows what shit and you were dying!" she snapped out in exasperation, "How was the doctor to tend your wounds if he could not see them for the mess?"

Sam let out a groan of sheer embarrassment. The very thought of being stripped and washed by this most peculiar woman was just too hideous to contemplate.

"I do not understand why you should be so distressed," Veronica sniffed. "You are well grown, and if I might venture to say so, a handsome man."

He let out a small moan of humiliation, feeling his face flush again. "The doctor was present, then?" he said in a small voice. "We were properly chaperoned at all times?"

"I was not concerned with that," she told him trenchantly, "For you were in no state to attempt to force yourself upon me. I would not be so vain as to flatter myself that you would be inspired to try."

"What? No! I mean…" he let out a defeated groan. "It is not proper."

"It was necessary," she told him briskly. "Besides, it is not as though you have anything to be ashamed of," she indicated one of the tattoos on his broad chest, "And I was most impressed by the quality of your tattooing, your artist was certainly well accomplished, especially the one on your…"

Sam let out a strangled noise of horror, and she relented.

"I am sorry, but truly, it was necessary, to save your life." Veronica's smile was sympathetic as she returned to the table, and held up some cloth. "I have been working on clothing for you – you are taller than anyone on board except for Siak, and he rarely bothers himself with clothing, being from African lands where it is not common – but they are not completed yet. Never fear, Lieutenant, propriety is observed at all times aboard this vessel. The captain insists upon it, and it is the crew's inclination."

"An unusual crew, then," commented Sam, thinking of the bawdiness of the rude fellows that had comprised the Navy crews he had sailed with. "But I thank you for your efforts. As soon as I may be decently covered, I would fain meet with your captain, and offer him my thanks, for truly, it seems he has saved my life." He paused. "What of my boots? They were a good pair, most serviceable."

"We have a crew member who was a cobbler," she told him, "And he was set to see what might be done with them…"

She was interrupted by the sound of running feet, and a younger woman burst into the cabin.

"I have his boots!" she announced gaily, "Martin said they were… oh," she paused, staring at Sam. "Oh, you're awake!"

Veronica visibly clenched her teeth and her fists. "Becky, how many times have I explained to you the convention of knocking, and waiting to be admitted?" she demanded.

"But you said this was important!" The girl Becky didn't take her eyes from Sam. "Hello! I'm Becky! I have your boots!" She held out the footwear for him to see, then put them down and bobbed a curtsey for him. He turned a bewildered look to Veronica.

"Becky is the cabin girl," she explained, "Via a set of circumstances that nobody can explain to me satisfactorily."

"Because I am so useful!" Becky's smile was beaming. Sam clutched the covers to himself. "He has very big boots, doesn't he?" she noted with enthusiasm, beaming. "And you know what they say about men with big boots…"

"They need big socks," snapped Ronnie, continuing in the voice of somebody holding onto her patience with difficulty. "Becky, this is Lieutenant Samuel Winchester of the Royal Navy. It would behove you to conduct yourself modestly in the presence of a gentleman."

"Oh, I will, I will," Becky replied fervently, sliding closer to Sam. "Actually, he's big all over, and, good heavens, he looks so… firm…"

Sam clutched the sheet a little higher as Veronica's hand shot out to grab Becky's before the girl's twitching fingers could make contact.

"Madam, you are forward!" Sam yapped disapprovingly.

"You have no idea," growled Veronica, "Becky, I will say this once, and once only. Lieutenant Winchester is the captain's guest, and you will accord him all respect as such."

"His is so very handsome, though, isn't he?" Becky was relentless and completely indiscreet in her admiration, as Sam's attempts to cover himself exposed his feet. "Oh, and his feet are big!"

"If you do not conduct yourself as is befitting," Veronica added, "I will see you swing from the main yard myself."

Becky's face fell momentarily, then she brightened up immediately. "It is late in the afternoon," she said, "He will not be able to stay here, will he?"

Sam shot Veronica a questioning look; she actually bared her teeth and growled at Becky, who let out a little yip, and shrank backward.

"No, he will not," Veronica said in a low voice, "And when he moves, you will make yourself scarce, girl, or you will answer to me for your complete lack of anything approaching manners. D'you understand? Just nod."

Becky nodded.

"Good. Now, go away, and do not let me see you, lest I be motivated to forget the important details of the Sixth Commandment."

"Is that the adultery one?" asked Becky brightly. "For I do not see a wedding ring upon the Lieutenant's hand…"

Veronica actually snarled, and, with a small squeak, Becky scuttled from the cabin.

Sam watched her go. "That is… this vessel has a cabin _girl_?"

Veronica sighed heavily. "I am afraid so. It is truly ridiculous – she is truly ridiculous, do you not agree?"

"And the captain tolerates this, permits her to stay on board?"

"Lord knows why," Veronica shrugged. "All good sense suggests that the wisest and most agreeable course would be to put her off at the next port. Or simply toss her overboard, that would be an equally satisfactory solution. But we are a vessel of waifs and strays, Lieutenant Winchester – perhaps the captain cannot bear to turn away another who has nowhere else to go."

"What did she mean about me not staying here?" he asked, looking around, "This is the captain's cabin, is it not? Does he require his quarters back? I will of course leave at once, if you will find me a bunk, or a hammock, wherever I may be accommodated…"

"It is not that," Veronica sighed, and turned to face him squarely with a serious mien. "But you must move. For your own safety, and that of others, you must be moved to the brig."

Sam gawped at her, but saw from her face that she was not attempting to turn a poor jest. "The… the brig? But why? Am I to be held a prisoner?"

"Not a prisoner, no," she assured him, "But confined you must be, for tonight, at least."

Sam stared right back at her.

"I do not see why. I am injured, I have no weapons, I certainly have no clothes…" his voice petered out in the face of her stare.

"There are things about this vessel that you must know," she said firmly, "Things that you will be told, aye, as soon as it is safe to do so, but for now, I must ask you to take my word for that. Lieutenant, you must follow me below to the brig, where you will be confined tonight."

Sam scoffed half in disbelief. "I can hardly go like this," he indicated himself. "Completely undressed."

Her stare did not leave his eyes. "You must come just as you are," she stipulated.

"I shall not!" he snapped.

"Oh, you shall," she told him grimly. "If you can, you shall walk on your own two feet. If you cannot, you will be carried. If you will not, you will be dragged. I offer you this choice, and suggest you make it quickly," she glanced out of the window, "For I was about to raise the matter with you when Becky burst in, and we must go now."

"Dragged, is it?" he smiled at her. "By whom?"

"By me, if necessary," she told him without hint of humour.

Nonetheless, he could not help but laugh out loud. "Mistress Aoire, you are strongly built for a woman, aye, and compared to many men I have met, but though I am injured, I do not think…"

His voice faltered as she stepped close to him, and gave his a look that was…

It was impossible to describe, but it was a stare that was redolent with authority – it went to the deepest recesses of his mind, and told him in no uncertainly that here was a person who would be obeyed, who must be obeyed, and who would brook no insurrection.

"You will come with me now," she growled in a low threatening voice, "Or I will twist your ear, and drag you there myself like a badly behaved puppy. Do you understand?"

Sam blinked, and she was suddenly smiling pleasantly at him. "I understand how very confronting this must be for you," she said reassuringly. "If it will make you feel less threatened, I shall undress also to accompany you."

Sam's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "WHAT?"

Veronica kicked off her boots, and began fiddling with the lacing at the front of her vest.

"Madam!" Sam snapped in anxiety, "What in God's name are you… cease and desist at once!"

To his utter horror, she shed her clothing as easily and quickly as he would put off a coat, and stood before him, completely naked and unashamed, tattoos showing against her skin giving her an unwomanly and heathen appearance that only made the entire awful situation worse.

"Oh, you hoyden!" he shrieked, closing his eyes. "Wretched woman! I thought the captain insisted upon propriety!"

When Veronica spoke, it was with considerable dignity. "I like to hope that I, like all the crew, am capable of modest behaviour, no matter what state of dress we may be in."

"You dare speak of modesty!" Sam didn't even dare peek. "What manner of ridicule is this?"

"No ridicule, Lieutenant," she replied serenely, "But a demonstration that you have nothing to fear."

"You intend to have me marched to the brig stark naked, and you say I have nothing to fear?" he growled.

"Indeed," she confirmed, "That is why I shall accompany you in the same state. Come, sir," he felt a hand slap gently against his uninjured arm, "We will make poor progress if you will not open your eyes. Can you walk?"

Sam considered his options. If he was to be paraded naked like a slave in a Roman commander's triumph, he would do it with all the dignity he could muster, and give nobody the satisfaction of seeing his shame. "I can walk," he snapped, swinging his legs carefully out of the bunk. "Be sure I shall complain to the Captain of this wretched vessel."

"No doubt you shall," she smiled, "But I assure you, the Captain has heard it before, and will give it the same consideration as ever. Now, come sir, your chamber awaits."

* * *

Yikes! Let's hope somebody locks Becky in a box, or throws her overboard. Or locks her in a box then throws her overboard.

Now, be sporting, leave a review for this chapter - I could've been an even more pathetic than usual review addict and split it into two separate chapters as a sad and transparent ruse to get extra reviews, but I didn't, and I'll just go put up the next one now...


	3. Chapter 3

...aaaaaaand this is where Dirty Miranda the plot bunny started to jabber again. Curse those wretched rodents!

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

Dean listened grimly to the tale that the strange man named Andrew had to tell, how he'd been Master aboard a merchantman that was attacked by Spanish freebooters; they had fought back, but had been no match for the pirates' guns, and when an ill-fated shot into the small but well-stocked powder magazine had blasted the starboard side of the vessel away he'd been hurled overboard, and spent two days, barely alive, clinging to a piece of wreckage before being picked up by another vessel, one with a peculiar crew and captained by a strange and scarred woman.

"Their ship's surgeon must be a most capable man, if your injuries were as bad as you say they were," Dean mused, regarding the man's damaged visage thoughtfully.

Andrew let out a bark of laughter, and swilled down the dregs in his tankard. "Oh, he has his hands full, the bloody Highlander, with the crew, let alone the captain," he chuckled, "He'd be some sort of saint, if he wasn't already bound for Hell."

"Truly, the very idea of a woman commanding a vessel is outlandish, and most unexpected," intoned Castiel with a note of disapproval in his voice, "Given that Woman is the weaker vessel in body and mind, it is her natural and proper place to be a handmaiden to Man, as appointed by God Almighty."

"How the damned thing stays afloat with a woman as captain beggars belief," muttered Bobby superstitiously, "It aint safe. What happens if her womb goes wanderin' in the middle of a battle? Irrational creatures at the best of times, wimmen – you need a commander who can command in the midst of all Hell breakin' loose, not one who's more likely to have hysterics as soon as the first shot is fired."

Andrew barked with laughter. "The _She-Wolf_ is in no danger of sinking, or being sunk," he chuckled, "For her gun crews fire at twice the rate of the best drilled Navy crews I have ever seen, and heavy cannon, too, 24 and 32 pounders."

"So we have heard," commented Dean, refilling Andrew's tankard, "But I find that difficult to believe; His Majesty's Navy is the best equipped, and her crews the best trained men, on the high seas."

Andrew took another swig, and stared hard at Dean. "Perhaps," he growled, "But the _She-Wolf's_ crew are no men. They are monsters, aye, and their captain, too."

"Monsters, you say?" Dean raised his eyebrows and smiled. "And the captain? I have heard tell tonight that she is a powerfully unattractive wench, and yet if we are to label a woman monstrous because of her appearance, then, in truth, I must confess that I have encountered one or two myself – forsooth, I do recall to mind one particular occasion, the _Impala_ had docked in Antwerp, we had to find a friendly port to make repairs following a skirmish with a Spaniard, you see, and I did encounter this most bonny and buxom young Hollander, Anselma her name was, and didn't she know a thing or two about running out a man's gun, but then her mother, now, her mother could've given Grendel's Dam a black eye…"

"If this is going to descend into yet one more improbable tale of Loose Women With Whom I Have Disported Myself," Castiel cut in, "I for one would rather hear no more."

"Laugh if you will, but it be no joking matter," Andrew growled. "If you truly wish to seek out your brother, you will…"

He paused as the bells of several churches began to toll the hour, lifting his head as if scenting the air. "I must go," he said shortly, upending his tankard, "I thank you for the drink, Captain, and hope you found me adequately entertaining."

"What?" Dean looked bemused as the scarred man pulled his hood up, and made ready to leave. "You cannot desert your audience just as you reach the best part of the tale! Go on, sir, go on! Tell us of the monsters aboard this mysterious vessel, and how they outgun even His Majesty's finest. Tell me how I may find my brother, and rescue him from the predations of this rampant pirate queen."

"I must take my leave," Andrew replied shortly, "For the bells sound the hour, and it grows late."

"The bells?" Dean blinked. "Are you some kind of seafaring monk, who must live his life in obedience to the church bells? 'Tis a strange order indeed, where the good brothers may sit in a tavern and drink, telling wild tales, yet must rush away untimely at the command of Heaven."

The half-smile died on Dean's face as Andrew turned to stare at him. "It is not the command of Heaven that compels me, Captain, but the power of Hell," he growled ominously. "I bid you good evening." With that, he strode out into the growing dimness of evening, and was gone.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

The next day, back aboard the _Impala_ , Bobby was overseeing dockside activities as the ship was reprovisioned, haggling with the victualler and occasionally pausing to yell instructions as the magazine was restocked.

Dean stood on the quarterdeck, leaning on the wheel as if to gain strength from the support of an old friend. He gazed out of the port to sea, the breeze stirring his dark blonde hair and the fabric of his shirt, which opened to show his tanned chest. His right hand clutched the necklace amulet his brother had given him, procured from a strange foreign land during Sam's first voyage aboard a Navy vessel – his first voyage without his big brother to watch over him - while his green eyes scanned the horizon as if he could somehow sight a bearing as to his brother's whereabouts.

Castiel made his way to where Dean stood. "The crew are not happy about another voyage so soon after making port from the last one," he murmured, "They were anticipating a long layover during which they might enjoy the spoils of their labours."

"None of them are held in bondage," Dean snapped, "This is a free crew, not a Navy vessel that presses men who would fain be elsewhere – any who wish to remain ashore may depart freely, with their wages and their prize money and my thanks."

"We will need to find a number of new crew members in due course," Castiel reminded him, "Between the skirmishes of the last voyage and that outbreak of fever in the tropics, we need time to find replacements."

"I will sail her with a skeleton crew, if necessary," Dean growled, breaking off to shout at the men who were not handling the powder kegs as carefully as he would prefer. "Take care with that! You blow a hole in my ship, the delicate embrace of Satan himself will be nothing compared to what I'll do to your miserable hides, you sons of she-dogs!"

"Bollocks! Bollocks!" A green parrot fluttered down from the rigging and perched on Dean's shoulder where it bobbed up and down, joining in with shouting at the crew. "Bollocks!"

Castiel put a calming hand on Dean's other shoulder. "We do not even know where your brother is," he said softly, "I know you care greatly for your brother, and your impulse is to rescue him; your filial piety does you credit, but we have no way of even knowing where he is – the _She-Wolf_ could be anywhere upon the ocean. She is not a landgoing animal that we may set after with a pack of hounds to follow the scent."

"You listen to your First Mate, boy," Bobby added in a sorrowful tone, joining them, "I know you don't wanna hear it, but he's talkin' good sense. Even if he is a damned Puritan."

"Bollocks!" contributed the parrot, bobbing up and down again and flapping its wings in agitation. "Bollocks! Bollocksbollocksbollocks!"

Dean sighed. "Do not say the word beginning with P in front of him," he sighed, "You know it sets off his… peculiarities."

"Bollocks!" the parrot screeched at Castiel once more for good measure.

"I believe that the bird dislikes me personally," observed Castiel. "Might I remind you once again that the feeling is entirely mutual."

"Bollocks! Bollocks!" shrieked the agitated avian.

"Belay that racket!" Dean snapped. "If you insist upon behaving as though the Devil himself is pulling your tail feathers, I shall hand you over to Cook, and require him to roast you!"

"Wanker!" came the reply.

"Well, I'll not tolerate this," Dean sniffed, "Since Bobby has precipitated this episode of rudeness, you will report to him to be disciplined. Be off!"

The parrot immediately took wing, fluttering briefly to land on Bobby's shoulder. "Darling, darling," it crooned, rubbing its feathery face tenderly against his ear. "Darling."

Dean smirked as the old Quartermaster scowled. "You knock that off right now, Crowley," he snapped, "Or I'll turn you into a feather duster."

Crowley the parrot subsided, cooing "Love," then settling and chittering quietly to himself as Bobby muttered "Idjit" at him.

"Maybe I don't have a way to track that ship right now," Dean smiled grimly, "But there is someone who I would lay money would be able to do so. Gentlemen, we are going to pay a visit to Rowena."

"Bollocks!" shrieked Crowley. "Bollocks! Bollocks! Lucifer's bum!"

Bobby glared at Dean from under bushy eyebrows. "For once, I agree with Feathers, here," he said, glowering. "That woman is trouble."

"She is worse than trouble," Castiel added, his face hardened. "The woman is a witch."

"Well, of course she's a witch," Dean rolled his eyes, "She would not be of much help in this situation if she was not, would she?"

"She calls upon unholy powers to work her spells," Castiel went on in utter disapproval, "She is a consort of the Devil, handmaiden to Satan, and an acolyte of Hell. She dabbles in ungodly matters, has a black and wicked heart, and is not to be trusted."

"Should either of you have any other ideas, then now is the time to inform me," Dean snapped, "But until such time as you are able to formulate a credible strategy for locating Sam, that is my plan."

"Well, I'm goin' with ya," Bobby declared, "Aint safe for a man to go strollin' into a witch's lair alone. Hell, it aint safe at any time."

"I too shall accompany you," Castiel stated firmly, "For though she be a woman destined for Perdition…"

"Bollocks! Bollocks!"

"He said 'Perdition', you stupid bird, not 'Puritan', are you deaf as well as…"

"BOLLOCKS!"

"Enough," Dean said quietly, "I am decided. I shall seek the aid of Rowena the witch."

"I shall pray for her soul, thought I fear it is a waste of charity," said Castiel.

"You do that," muttered Bobby, "I'll pray for a miracle, and if she so much as twitches funny I'll blow her head off, and think it no damned waste of powder."

"You will please refrain from blowing anybody's heads off until such time as we have determined whether her Craft can help me locate Sam," instructed Dean. "And you," he fixed Crowley with a stern eye, "After your last performance, you should stay here."

"A prudent precaution," Castiel murmured, "For if that crazed bird reprises his last encounter with her, I fear that having it drop excrement on her crystal ball and try to peck her eyes out will not dispose her to aid us."

"Wanker," chittered the bird.

"And so he will stay here," Dean frowned at the parrot. "Charlie!"

The call was taken up by the crew. "Cap'n wants the cabin boy… Cap'n wants the cabin boy…"

A few minutes later a diminutive figure, in seaman's garb and a striped cap, rushed breathlessly up to them.

"You sent for me, Captain?" said Charlie the cabin boy, in his strangely high voice.

"Indeed," smiled Dean, "I want you to take Crowley and put him on his perch, so that he does not follow us."

"Bitch!" screeched Crowley, as Charlie took off his cap and used it to grab the squawking psittacine, "Bitch!"

"Why you do not wring that wretched creature's neck, I do not understand," growled Castiel.

"I do hope you're talkin' about the parrot," commented Bobby.

"Of course," Castiel cocked his head in a way that made him look a little birdlike himself, as they watched the cabin boy remove the protesting parrot. "Captain, has it come to your attention that there may be something… peculiar about Charlie?"

"Peculiar?" echoed Dean.

"I find myself somewhat concerned for the boy's constitution," Castiel continued. "His voice has not deepened, nor does he appear to be filling out as perhaps he should."

"Given the amount of cocoa he likes to drink, he should at least be gettin' fat," agreed Bobby. "Never seen anyone, boy or man, who enjoyed the cocoa like Charlie does."

"And his beard has not started to grow," Castiel added.

Dean waved a hand dismissively. "Charlie is just a late starter," he declared. "I have seen it myself, in boys who endure privation in their early lives – it stunts their growth, and retards their progress to manhood."

"Nonetheless, I think it might be prudent to have him examined by a doctor," Castiel suggested.

"Huh," growled Bobby, "One o' them useless leeches, who'll just spout a whole lotta dross about how the boy's humours are not balanced, then bleed him? What the hell is that supposed to do? I seen what happened when men lose blood, and you can't tell me that it improves anybody's health."

"I was thinking perhaps of a more… practical doctor," Castiel clarified, "If in the future our path takes us north, the doctors trained in Edinburgh are reputed to be of a high calibre, and most effective in their ministrations."

Dean paused to consider the matter. "It is high time that Charlie was introduced to the mysteries of Woman," he smiled. "When we return from this voyage, I shall accompany him myself to a high class establishment where the girls will instruct him in what is required."

Castiel frowned. "Charlie is a decent and diligent boy, if somewhat grubby," he stated, "Avoiding the demon of intoxicating drink, and the more outlandish excesses entertained by the rest of the crew. I do not approve of you leading him into fornication."

"Perhaps not, but it will put hair on his chest and make a man of him," Dean smiled slowly, the expression one that made women swoon and men worry. "Now, come, let us seek out the iniquitous harridan Rowena, and see whether the black-hearted termagant may be of use to us."

* * *

Leave reviews for Dirty Miranda, because Reviews Are The Refreshing Tankard Of Something Refreshing When You Need Refreshing In The Tavern Of Life!


	4. Chapter 4

The reviewing efforts of a handful of die-hard Denizens seems to be enough to keep Dirty Miranda dictating, and so, onward!

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

The idea of walking the length of a ship in nothing but the skin God gave him was bad enough, thought Sam, but the idea of being manhandled by a woman, and a stark naked woman at that, was just beyond the pale. Determined not to show any weakness in front of the ship's complement; he straightened his back and lifted his chin, a resolute expression on his face, looking much more confident than he actually felt.

Veronica's face quirked into a smile. "Good heavens, man, you look like a wolf bristling for a fight, raising up your hackles to make yourself appear even more fearsome," she commented without any mocking in her tone. "Stand down, Lieutenant. You may take assurance from me, you look fearsome enough without any posturing. Come, time is a-wasting." She ducked out of the low door. Gritting his teeth on his temper, Sam followed.

The cool breeze of approaching evening hit his skin – he paused for a moment, unprepared for the enjoyable sensation, and gave a small sigh, running a hand through his long hair and leaving it in magnificently attractive disarray. As very small children, he and his brother had run about their father's ship in fair conditions as naked as jaybirds, tanned as brown as nuts with sun-bleached streaks in their hair. Back then, they had been able to spend an entire watch laughing and chasing, getting into minor mischief and in the way of the crew who tended to indulge the games and questions of two such engaging little boys, unburdened by Adam's penance of shame. But that was a very long time ago, he thought wistfully, and now he was a man grown and knew better he would have to confess the moment, if this vessel even had a priest aboard.

He was surprised to see Veronica turn her nose into the wind, eyes closed, and inhale deeply, apparently taking a much more carefree enjoyment in the conditions.

"It is a most pleasing evening, is it not?" she asked pleasantly, "I may not bother with garments until dark. Come along, although I am sure you would find your way, I shall accompany you."

He was not sure exactly what he was expecting, but he was expecting something, walking the length of a ship wearing nothing. He had been targeted before, bullied as a child because he was small and tended towards bookishness, then harassed in his teens due to his gangly build, especially if he was aboard a ship where the Bosun did not diligently look to keeping good Christian order amongst the crew – an unfortunate consequence of men being at sea for months, if not years, at a time, was that sometimes they would look for physical solace other than where he believed the Good Lord had intended. If they could not find a companion who was similarly inclined, a Midshipman of slight physique was deemed a juicy and tempting target, for cruel horseplay if not for something darker and more horrific, and if not for Dean's coaching in how to use his fists and his weapons from a young age he might on more than one occasion have found himself impossibly compromised.

That sort of attention was no longer a problem for Lieutenant Winchester; he stood six foot four, having finally outgrown his brother and then his father, and was well muscled, wide shouldered and broad chested, skin tanned from living a life aboard ship and adorned with some intricate tattooing and a few scars from the sorts of injuries unavoidable to a professional seaman. (Indeed, the young ladies at Madame Amanda's establishment had been known to spy on him also, for although he did not seek their professional services as did his older brother, Sam being far too shy and godly to engage a lady of the night, he did on occasion patronise the bath house facilities. When he did so, some of the bolder girls who worked there had admired the play of hard muscle under firm skin as he washed, speculating about him later the way a canny stockman may consider the potential stud prowess of a well-bred stallion.)

His size discouraged unwanted attention at sea, and on the few occasions where he was rudely approached by some lecher who mistook his boyish handsomeness and genteel manner for submissiveness, his would-be attacker soon found out that Sam was entirely capable of using those muscles to good effect, having sent more than one lewd crewmate to the fo'c'sle to be patched up by the ship's surgeon and lectured by the ship's chaplain after attempting to become physically familiar in a way that God-fearing men ought not.

Wearing a stern expression of the sort he had taken to practising on young Midshipmen deemed lacking in their attention to duty, Sam steeled himself for the catcalls, the crude comments, and the blasphemous suggestions that were bound to occur, and resolved that anybody who attempted to slap his backside would be picking their teeth up off the deck…

Given the situation, he was expecting something. But the something he expected was not… nothing.

Stepping out under the fading daylight, he saw the usual sights of a crew about the business of manning a ship under sail at sea: men at work on the deck, repairing sails or coiling ropes, navigation sightings taking place on the quarterdeck, a sailor wielding a marlinspike as he spliced a line, a rigging monkey aloft, untangling a sheet that had become fouled. He recognised Doctor McGregor; the man was holding a slate before a handful of boys who sat cross-legged, attending closely to him – Sam recognised the rudiments of geometry.

A few heads turned to look briefly at him, then returned to their various tasks.

He was surprised enough when half of them didn't even stop what they were doing to spare him a glance.

He was even more surprised to see that a good number of them were as bare as himself.

Sam stopped dead, head spinning with incomprehension. Before him, Veronica also paused, and turned. "Is something wrong, Lieutenant?" she asked solicitously. "Are your injuries giving you pain?"

"Uh, no, I mean, well, yes," Sam stuttered, "But, er, not very badly, they are much improved since first I woke up aboard this vessel…"

"Hud yer heid, barra," called a voice behind them; Sam half-turned, and froze.

Veronica stepped to his side and smartly pulled him out of the way as a short but powerfully built man, as naked as the day he was born, strode past with an enormous length of lumber on one shoulder, which swooshed past – if she hadn't pulled him aside, it might well have smacked Sam smartly on the ear . He smiled, showing that his remaining teeth were dreadfully yellowed and snaggled , and nodded to them. "Ta, Carlin."

Veronica growled something in a language that Sam didn't understand, but apparently others did: two of the boys sitting with Doctor McGregor tittered, and the good doctor himself raised his voice to call out in disapproval, "Such language in front of children, madam, for shame!"

"Who… what… what on Earth is he doing?" demanded Sam, watching the man stroll easily along the deck with his burden.

"Oh, that's Douglas, our carpenter," Veronica rolled her eyes, "He thinks that if he is impertinent in his native dialect, it does not count as impertinence. Ignore him, he is incorrigible, and will answer one day to his God, for The Almighty knows he rarely feels obliged to answer to anyone else in this vale of tears."

"No, no, no!" snapped Sam, his bewilderment fraying his patience, "Why is that man…" He looked around. "In truth, I see that more than one member of this crew is in what I can only describe as a state of… extreme deshabille!"

Veronica cocked an eyebrow at him. "Deshabille?"

"From the French, 'déshabillé'," Doctor McGregor supplied helpfully, the foreign word perfectly accented, "Meaning undressed, the prefix 'dés' being appended to 'habiller', to dress or wear, from which we also derive 'habiliments', garments or clothing."

"It means ye're missin' yer kecks, Carlin," Douglas supplied cheerfully as he manoeuvred the length of lumber onto a couple of trestles, "Jus' like yersel an' yon barra ye're leadin' there."

"Is it even so?" Veronica raised her eyebrows. "Deshabille. Deshabille. My word, but it is true that we do learn something new every day."

One of the small boys sitting on the deck raised his hand. "If you please, sir, how do you spell that word?" Smiling indulgently, Doctor McGregor wiped off the slate, and carefully printed the word as the boys sounded out each letter.

"Come Lieutenant, we are nearly at our destination," called Veronica, strolling shamelessly past the crew with the rolling gate of a person accustomed to being at sea. Mouth gawping in astonishment, Sam followed her to the hatch, and, with a quick glance around to make certain that the ghastly creature named Becky was not prowling anywhere nearby and awaiting an opportunity to test his firmness for herself in a thoroughly inappropriate fashion, headed down the ladder into the gloom below.

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"This place is less fit for a righteous man than even the dens of iniquity that you do visit with unholy regularity," muttered Castiel as Dean led the way to one of the least salubrious parts of town, a low and dirty tenement amongst the rookeries near the river.

"I believe that she takes lodgings in such a place on purpose, the better to impress herself and the ambiance of her Craft upon those who seek her out," Dean replied dismissively.

"Surely you aint afraid o' no foists or nips, Castiel?" chuckled Bobby. Dean laughed also, for the idea of a pickpocket being able to take advantage of the First Mate was laughable; Castiel had about his person at all times a short blade that had often been ridiculed as more fit for the table than a battle, and yet he wielded it with a ruthless and dispassionate skill that quickly disabused any opponent of that notion – more than one opponent with a weapon of heavier blade and longer reach had learned that the hard way.

"It is not my earthly body, or yours, for which I fear," Castiel replied, "But for my everlasting soul. This constitutes consorting with a witch. She does not deny her nature, nay, she flaunts it, revels in it."

"I do wish you would not tar all persons who may style themselves as such with the same brush," murmured Dean, not keen to enter into an old argument over the merits of wise women and persons of obscure knowledge, "But let us leave that aside – for now, we must risk it, in order to procure a way to find Sam, and hope that The Almighty will forgive me any trespasses upon His commands."

The hovel they eventually ducked into was at odds with its surrounds: the small window was unexpectedly cleaned and clear for such a place, yet it was kept deliberately dark and gloomy, and packed with strange objects. A heavy exotic scent, some resin or incense from the East, perhaps, hung cloying in the close air.

Rowena the witch, henna-stained hair clashingly vibrant red in the darkness, offered them a smile like a friendly snake.

"Why, Captain," she purred, "How very wonderful to see you. You do not have your dear amusing little pet with you?" She paused. "I do not mean that one," she pointed to Castiel, "I mean your dear little feathered friend."

"I thought it best to leave him behind," Dean said shortly. "My brother is missing."

"Aaaaah, the one taken by the _She-Wolf_ ," intoned Rowena portentously. "A most unfortunate turn of events for your brother, such a young and handsome and virile morsel as he is…"

"How do you know that?" snapped Castiel.

"It is my business to know things, Puritan," she laughed derisively, "For if I did not know things, why would you be here?" She returned her gaze to Dean. "And so, Captain, why are you here?"

"I have to find my brother," Dean's tone was clipped. "Can you give me the means to find him, to trace his whereabouts?"

"Give, no," Rowena pouted, "But sell, possibly." She sighed deeply, dramatically and languidly. "It will take powerful spellcraft to effect such a talisman. Such things are costly."

"I will pay," Dean growled. "Name your price, in gold or silver or gems, as you please."

Rowena smiled again. "Ah, spoken like a true pirate," she purred, "You weigh everything in terms of coin, you can discern the cost of anything, and yet know the value of nothing." She leaned forward. "This is powerful magic, child," she snarled, "And there will be need of certain… ingredients that cannot be bought with your booty."

Bobby snorted. "Everythin' can be bought for gold, if you offer enough," he stated. "That's just the way men's minds work. Even you, woman, offer you enough coin, and you'd sell any bastard child you'd whelped without a moment's thought."

Rowena studied Bobby carefully, as if sizing up an opponent who had seemed harmless, right up until the moment you spotted that they were actually armed to the teeth, and he stared back sternly, completely uncowed by her gaze or her reputation. "You are absolutely right," she replied pleasantly, "Well, about the children, certainly. Although, perhaps you are also right about the ingredients I shall require; perhaps casting enough bread upon the water will bring the right little duck. Or," she showed a mischievous grin to Dean, "Perhaps in this case, cast enough meat upon the deck, and you will summon the right wolf…"

"Speak plainly, crone," Dean growled, "Do not test my patience with riddles. What do you require?"

"I can prepare this item you require," Rowena told him airily, "And it will cost you a pretty penny, but there are two things that you must procure, Captain Winchester: you will need something that has some connection to your brother…"

"I have that," Dean cut her off, his mind going immediately to his amulet necklace.

"…And something that has some connection to the _She-Wolf_."

Castiel made a noise that was part exasperation, part disgust. "I told you that we would be wasting time, dallying with a sorceress," he snapped out in an angry voice. "You fool, witch, it is the _She-Wolf_ we are seeking…"

Dean looked thoughtful for a long moment, and then a look of grim determination, and a smile with no humour at all in it, formed on his face. "I can manage that," he said firmly.

Rowena smiled brightly, dangerously. "Then we are in accord, Captain," she trilled, "I shall make you your amulet, and you shall pay me in gold. And… companionship."

Dean inhaled sharply, baring his teeth, the desperate need to find his brother warring with utter disgust within him.

Rowena laughed, a genuine whooping sound of immense amusement. "Not that sort of companionship, child," she beamed, "I would not have the heart to deprive Madame Amanda and her ladies of your undoubted charms and talents. Give me gold, and the green parrot that usually attends you."

Dean's face went from disdainful anger to What In Hades in a moment. "Crowley?" he stuttered. "You want Crowley?"

"Is that his name?" Rowena sighed. "How sweet."

"Why would you want that wretched bird?" demanded Castiel. "He is raucous, his vocabulary consists largely of abusive and blasphemous language, and the last time he encountered you, he… did not comport himself in a seemly manner."

"Oh, but I find I like him," Rowena answered. "If I wanted obedient attention, I would procure a dog. No, I find your feathery friend engaging, interesting, and inexplicably I believe I may have developed a fondness for the wee sausage."

"Done," Dean said promptly. "Gold, and the bird. I shall return with both.

"I shall anticipate that with pleasure." She stood, making shooing motions. "And now, if you please, I must make preparations for a complicated working, and so I bid you good day, gentlemen. And Quartermaster," she added, with a wink at Bobby, who snarled back before following Dean and Castiel back out into the foetid air of the narrow alley.

"Dean," Castiel murmured, "Bluffing will avail you of naught in this situation – this is not a game of cards. If we do not have the requirements specified by the witch, then even if her working proves to be authentic, it will not work."

"We have the means to this end," Dean told him firmly. "I have the amulet that my brother gave me – I keep it with me always."

"But a connection to the very vessel we are seeking?" asked Castiel doubtfully.

Dean turned to him with the same predatory expression he had shown Rowena. "That, I have in hand. Or I will have. Bobby, who would you say was the strongest man we have on board?"

Bobby frowned thoughtfully. "That would probably be Campbell," he suggested, "He mans the 32-pounder, draws a 200 pound bow, and can wield his claymore one-handed, I have seen him do it."

"Then find him," Dean instructed. "Send him to me – when I return from the witch, I have work for him."

* * *

Oo-er! What is Dean planning? What is in store for Sam? What is in store for Crowley? What do the Denizens think? Incidentally, if there are any plot requests as we go, I shall pass them on to Dirty Miranda and see if she can work them in somewhere, in their original form or possibly bastardised to the point they are barely recognisable - feed her reviews, and see what happens next, because Reviews Are The Parrot Perching On Somebody You Can't Stand And Crapping On Their Shoulder On The Pirate Ship Of Life!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom below decks, Sam realised that an amalgam of scents was coming to his nose: there were the usual aromas of shipboard, the timber and tar and the dry overlay of hemp and canvas, but also an unexpected one that he didn't realise he recognised until it came to his nose.

"You have…" he inhaled, puzzled, "You have… livestock aboard?"

"Oh yes," Veronica told him airily, "This is a crew that takes its food seriously. Most of us have lived on the stuff that is laughingly termed vittles aboard various Navy vessels and merchantmen. Besides, I have seen the debilitation and disease that ravages crews living on salted pork and weevil-infested biscuit. Fresh food is not a luxury, Lieutenant; it is an essential for health of body and mind." She flashed him a smile. "I can promise you, aboard this vessel, you will not go hungry or unwell for lack of appropriate sustenance."

"In theory, it sounds like a most desirable practice," Sam said wistfully, himself all too well acquainted with the horrors of living on usual shipboard rations and having experienced nursing sailors through bouts of scurvy. "Unfortunately, His Majesty's ships do not have the space to keep livestock, or their fodder, on board."

"That is because the Navy packs its ships with nigh twice the men required to crew them, upon the assumption that half the complement may die due to lack of that nourishment," she snapped back. "We are not a large crew, and the captain values the lives of all aboard, even at the inconvenience and cost in hold space that might otherwise carry cargo."

"Even Becky?" Sam's tone was gently teasing.

Veronica sighed deeply. "God help us, even Becky."

"So, this is a merchant vessel?" Sam asked.

"Of a kind," Veronica told him, "She is not a buccaneer, despite what scuttlebutt and slander ashore may tell you… and here we are."

Before Sam could ask any more questions about the ship aboard which he found himself, they emerged into a cleared area, and he blinked in bemusement.

The brig being a small stockade on board ship in which miscreants or delinquents were confined, those he was familiar with – he and his temper had spent their share of nights in them – were generally little more than crude cages, cramped and dirty, dark and dank and generally extremely unpleasant in aspect and aroma. This, however, was something entirely unexpected.

There was a row of what were essentially cages, yes; there were bars – a lot heavier than those he had ever seen before, he noted – and thick separating walls of stout timber, but the cells themselves were larger, at least twice as large as what he would have anticipated. The space was surprisingly airy, and light filtered in through gridwork set high in the hull, apparently for that purpose. The straw on the floors was clean and dry. Altogether, he thought, he had bunked down in much worse places.

Just as he began to think that spending a night locked up might not be as bad as he had anticipated, a figure sat up in the cell at the end of the row. It was a man, short of stature and wide of grin, and he was as naked as Sam.

"Well, hello again, Carlin," the tenant beamed widely, "Have you brought me a companion?" He looked Sam up and down casually. "My word, he is a big one. How big do you think he'll get when the, uh, beast is aroused, so to speak?"

Sam let out a small involuntary noise of horror. "Madam, I am not going in there with him!" he yapped, "It would be most improper!"

With the air of exasperation that she had displayed in the presence of Becky, Veronica gritted her teeth. "Gabriel, this is Lieutenant Samuel Winchester of His Majesty's Royal Navy," she growled, "Lieutenant, this is Gabriel, a gambler from the colonies by profession and an idiot by inclination. Normally I deplore violence between civilised individuals, but if he provokes you, then should the opportunity present itself a hearty slap upon the ear can often be deployed to prompt him to mend his manners." She bent a stern eye upon the man she'd named as Gabriel. "The Lieutenant was rescued from aboard the ship we encountered," she told him, "He has been through an ordeal, been wounded, and suffered great loss…"

"Also he has been traumatised by being in close proximity to Becky," Gabriel intoned with an equally serious mien.

Veronica gave him the sort of glaring stare that she'd used on Sam earlier, and he subsided; Sam thought he could almost see the man's ears droop. "I mean it," she said quietly, "You will comport yourself in an appropriate fashion, until such time as I have the opportunity to speak to him further about his confinement here."

Understanding dawned on the smaller man's face. "Of course," he replied, all facetiousness gone.

Veronica took a large key down from a hook on the wall, and opened a cage at the opposite end of the row from the one that was already occupied, motioning for Sam to step in. When he hesitated, Gabriel spoke up once more.

"Just do it, boyo," he suggested, "Better to walk on your own two legs than be dragged by the ear."

With a spectacularly puckered face of disapproval, Sam did as he was bid. "Am I to receive an explanation of this extraordinary practice any time soon?" he demanded.

"You will, as soon as it is possible," Veronica assured him with an apologetic smile.

"I look forward to it," Sam scowled, "You may tell your captain that I cannot wait to hear his explanation for the turn that events have taken since I was brought aboard this altogether peculiar vessel…"

Gabriel let out an audible and most ungentlemanly snigger as Veronica glared at him again. "Be assured, the message will be passed on," she told him. "And now, I must be about other duties." With a nod of reassurance, she was gone, tattooed skin fading into the darkness.

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Aboard the Impala, the sailor named Campbell smiled unpleasantly as Dean explained his intentions. The dour Scot listened, and the more he heard the more he smiled – the plan was going to involve at least one of his favourite activities, drinking, and at his captain's expense too, and possibly also violence, another of his preferred pastimes ashore. He agreed readily.

For the evening, Dean put aside the light shirt and serge trousers that he knew showed his physique to best advantage, and dressed down, choosing dull clothing intended to conceal and blend in, giving no observer any detail which might stick readily in the memory. Although, he grinned to himself, should any observer that evening be of the female persuasion, there was always the chance that he would be seen and remembered, for surely, it was not possible for a man who was practically Adonis reincarnate to walk anywhere totally unnoticed by the fairer sex…

As darkness approached, Dean headed back to the _Harvelle's Arms_ with only his gunner for company, looking for all the world just like one more swaggering seaman intent on finding somewhere to drink intemperately.

As he had hoped, the hooded figure sat in the shadowed corner, a tankard before him. When he pushed two heavy coins across the bar and nodded towards Andrew, Ellen took in his appearance and gave him a suspicious look.

"I feel I owe it to the fellow," Dean justified himself, "He was after all good enough to provide me with intelligence that will allow me to begin the quest to find my brother. And in truth, I do pity him – a ship's Master, no less, so reduced by providence, through no fault of his own." He gave her a smile that was an attenuated version of the one that had in the past made so many ladies smile and coquette and titter behind their fans. "Do you not think he has a certain… hungry look about him? The poor fellow is in need of hearty sustenance."

"If you leave that for him, he will spend it on drink," Ellen said, her tone suggesting that she suspected Dean already knew that.

"He is not a cabin boy or servant to be told what he may or may not do, he is a man grown," Dean said primly, "Take it on his behalf, and serve him what he will have."

He purchased a bottle of her best grog, good dark rum imported from the Carribean, and returned to the table where his gunner waited. Campbell's expression suggested that he would have preferred the spirit distilled in his homeland, but he raised his drink in grim salute to his captain, and drank uncomplaining.

Dean noticed that Ellen made a point of putting a trencher of good meat in front of Andrew along with a tankard, and the scarred mariner raised it in salute to him before draining it and calling for another.

"Tha' yin eats like a starvin' wolf," muttered Campbell, as Andrew downed the heaped trencher with surprising speed, appearing barely to bother to chew some pieces. Dean grunted in a non-committal fashion, and continued to watch without watching as his object of observation finished his meal, and called for more strong drink.

They had just about finished the rum between them when he stood, pulled his hood well up, and made his way to the door. Dean watched him go, marvelling that, given the amount that Andrew had drunk, he wasn't at least staggering, if not looking for a quiet corner to be thoroughly sick. With a wordless grin, Campbell necked the bottle, finishing it, and strolled after his captain.

It wasn't difficult to follow Andrew: he was as tall as Dean, and distinctive with the heavy cloak and hood wrapped about his person. As he made his way towards the East End, Dean gave a small prayer of thanks; what he intended would attract far less attention in the least salubrious parts of the town.

Andrew headed down streets, then lanes, until he turned into an alley where there was barely room for two people to pass each other. On silent feet, Dean followed him, quietly taking the cosh from his belt.

The moment he reached the mouth of the alley, a huge hand shot out, grabbed him by the throat, and pulled him into the dank darkness.

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Rowena gave the tear-stained woman across the table a smile like a reassuring crocodile.

"Of course, if it is revenge you seek against this man, this wretch, this knave who has wronged you," she crooned solicitously, seductively, "Then, I am in a position to help you. If you can but procure an item that once belonged to the treacherous blackguard, then you need but cross my palm with silver, and I shall offer you an irreproachable guarantee that he will rue the day he ever treated you dishonourably…"

There was a rustle from the shadows, a swirling in the hovering incense, and…

"Bitch! Bitch!" came the eldritch screeching from the darkness.

The would-be client let out a small shriek as a large glob of guano splatted wetly against the glittering crystal ball that held pride of place on the table.

"Bitch! Bitch!"

"Will you excuse me just a moment," Rowena's invitingly predatory smile never wavered, "He does get so excitable whenever we have guests. He's so clever, letting himself out of his cage…"

She made a grab for the green parrot, which dodged deftly out of the way and let fly another round of abusive language, and another glob of guano.

"Bollocks!"

"Got you!" Rowena shrieked in triumph, grabbing the offensive avian. "Now, we'll just put the wee sausage back in his cage, and maybe just take a moment to utilise something a wee bit more secure, shall we, something that cannot be opened without opposable thumbs…"

Crowley might not have had opposable thumbs, but his did have a beak like a pair of pruning shears, coupled with a genetic memory that, in the innumerably distant past, his kindred had once been gigantic carnivorous lizards that would have eaten anything with opposable thumbs for breakfast...

As Rowena shrieked in pain, Crowley gave one last shriek of "LUCIFER'S BUM!" circled the room a final time to deposit a most prolific glob in her hair, then shot out of the window and into the sooty evening air.

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Dean was entirely capable of defending himself in a fight, against more than one opponent if necessary, but the hand that grasped him did so with a strength suggesting that, if the grasper so wished it, a lot more pressure could be applied.

It also felt as though the hand had very sharp nails, clawlike, which were just about at the point of breaking skin.

"How interesting to meet you again, Captain Winchester," rumbled a voice thickly with a snuffling sound that might've been a chuckle or possibly a growl. "And how delightful that I have the opportunity to thank you for this evening's largesse."

Dean smiled as engagingly as he could with his windpipe on the verge of being crushed. "Well, I felt I was indebted to you," he rasped as clearly as he could, "For the information you did vouchsafe, concerning the _She-Wolf,_ and the possible fate of my brother…"

Dean's voice stuttered to a halt; it had to be a trick of the fading light, he told himself immediately, as for a moment he looked into the hooded face, and thought he beheld a mouth full of the most extraordinary teeth…

"If you are wise, you will leave bad enough alone," Andrew's voice sounded cluttered, as if he was trying to speak around a mouthful of… something. "If your brother is lost, there is no point throwing your own life after his. I cannot help you, and so I bid you follow me no more."

"I have to find my brother, and by thunder you will help me, willingly or no!" Dean snapped, reaching for his dagger with one hand and grabbing at the wrist that held him with the other.

Completely unexpectedly, as Dean's left hand closed on his arm, Andrew let out an agonised shriek, dropping Dean to snatch his hand away. His hood fell back, and Dean couldn't quite believe what he saw.

"I'll see you pay for burning me, pirate," the growling voice sounded barely human, and then the other man reached out with a hand that, in the shadows, looked more paw than hand…

There was a dull but definite thump as the hilt of Campbell's claymore slammed into the back of Andrew's head.

Between them, they half carried, half dragged Andrew back to the _Impala_ ; nobody abroad that evening took any notice, for they seemed just two seamen, helping a crewmate who was in his cups, back to his ship.

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Sam set about examining the area of his confinement, starting with the enormous wooden walls on either side of the cell. They were made of a hard timber, and criss-crossed with many slashing scored marks, as if some monster had attempted to rend it asunder with gigantic claws.

"Is this… is this rosewood?" he wondered alound, running his hands over the skilled joinery.

"It's quebracho, from the Americas," said a casual voice beside him. His head snapped around.

Gabriel stood outside his cell – still appallingly naked, Sam noticed with an inward groan – holding a cup and a jug.

"The name means 'axe-breaker' in Spanish," Gabriel continued, gesturing with the jug. "Fancy a drink?"

Sam stared at him. "What are you… what are you doing out there? How did you unlock your cell?"

"Oh, I wasn't locked in," Gabriel shrugged. "Not from the outside. Now, since you were injured, would you like some houndswort? It really is marvellously restorative stuff. I've been wondering if it might be possible to brew something from it, or possibly distil a liquor…"

"To the deuce with drinking!" snapped Sam, "Get the key and let me out, man!"

Gabriel cocked his head, and sighed. "Look, that really isn't a good idea," he said. "Trust me, boyo, it's better if you stay locked in, just for tonight at least, until it is clearer what…"

"Nothing is clear!" Sam thundered, his temper flaring and Gabriel flinching, "Since I came aboard this vessel, there has been nothing but strangeness, and riddle upon riddle! Why must I be confined? Why do you confine yourself? _Why in the name of Lazarus's thrice-beshitten shroud is half the company of this vessel stark naked?"_

Gabriel stared at him wide-eyed, looking like a rabbit trying to decide whether it was worth bolting in an attempt to outrun a hound, but before he could do or say anything, a call from above drifted down to them.

 _Sails ahoy!_

"Oh, that probably is not good," murmured Gabriel.

"What?" demanded Sam.

"Well, the thing is," Gabriel went on hesitantly, "You may have noticed, Lieutenant – that sounds terribly stuffy, doesn't it, may I call you Samuel? Good. You may have noticed, Sam, that we are low in the water, because our hold is full of cargo. That makes us a tempting target, for any vessel that would fain… acquire our holdings as booty. And that means," he swallowed, "That means, that if a vessel has been sighted, and it turns to engage us, and it attempts to take us, there will be fighting." He gave a sheepish smile. "I really really don't like fighting."

Before Sam could reply, there was the sound of thudding feet as somebody approached in a hurry. It was Douglas the carpenter. He strode past Gabriel, took the key from the wall, and unlocked Sam's cell.

"Here," Douglas said quickly, thrusting a bundle at him – it proved to be his boots, a pair of trousers, a short dagger and a cutlass. "Get yersel' above deck, barra, a fucking froggy is tacking to intercept us."

Sam looked down at the items in his hands.

"Captain's orders," Douglas added, "Nobody is left locked away or unarmed if there's tae be fightin' – get yoursel' to the quarterdeck, barra." With that he was gone.

"I'd really rather stay down here," Gabriel moaned, as Sam dressed as quickly as he could.

"Well, 'tis an odd captain who will arm a captive," he mused, examining the weapons he'd been given; they were of high quality steel and well maintained, the edge kept by somebody who knew what they were doing.

"Get this into your head, Sam," Gabriel said, "You are not a captive here. There are no prisoners aboard; if you want to leave, arrangements will be made for you to depart as soon as you may." With an air of resignation, he headed back to his own cell, where he began to pull on his own clothes. "Go on, I shall catch you up."

Sam made his way back along the deck more nimbly than a man his size might be expected to, heading back up into fading sunlight. Had any interested female admirers been present they would no doubt have noticed what a fine figure he cut, armed, bare-chested, grim of visage and looking corset-bustingly interestingly dangerous if not actually dangerously interesting.

The vessel was swarming with activity of the sort that usual preceded a sea battle: the deck was being strewn with sand, sails were being unfurled, and two small boys scampered past, no doubt powder monkeys headed for the magazine. Through his boots he felt the heavy rumble of cannon being run out on the gun deck below. Dr McGregor strode past, pausing briefly to speak rapidly.

"Ah, you're out, good. Head for the quarterdeck, and remember, should the fight come to us, you are still carrying injuries, so be careful, lad, defend yourself, but let the able-bodied crew do the brawling."

Before Sam could acknowledge him, he was gone.

He made his way through the clamour to the quarterdeck where he was horrified to see Veronica amongst the throng, obliviously in conversation with several crewmen. He shouldered his way to her, speaking urgently.

"Mistress Aoire," he began, "I am informed that we may be attacked by a French brigand; it is not safe here."

"Nowhere upon a ship under attack is truly safe, Lieutenant," she grinned, turning away.

He put a hand upon her shoulder and spun her back to face him, not noticing the astonishment of the crew members as he did so. "Mistress," he said firmly, "Your bravery does you credit, you are clearly of high courage – I have seen men quail under the threat of battle – you are no coward, madam, but there is no place for you here. Come, I shall escort you to the fo'cs'le, where you will no doubt assist Dr McGregor in the event of any crew incurring injuries."

She gave him an amused look. "I thank you for your concern," she said patiently, "But it is unneeded. Indeed, I urge you to look to your own safety, should we be boarded."

Sam drew himself up to his full height, six-foot-four of magnificently chivalric concern and exasperated impatience. "Madam, the quarterdeck of a vessel under fire is no place for a doctor's maidservant!" he rapped out in his best voice of command.

For a moment, she stared at him. Then, she began to laugh.

"Indeed it is not, Samuel Winchester, indeed it is not," she chuckled. "I am so sorry, you are owed an explanation, and alas, there is no time now. This turn of events is most unfortunate. Go now, I urge you, keep out of the way unless we are boarded, and as soon as I may, I will speak with you further."

The gentleman in Sam did not give up so easily. "Mistress Aoire, you should not be here!" he insisted.

She turned upon him the commanding stare she had used on him earlier in the day. "And where else should I be?" she demanded. "Here is _exactly_ where, now, as I must devote my energies and attention to the command and safety of my crew, I bid you, go, before you feel the flat of my blade on your pert lily-white arse!"

The tone of her voice was such that Sam found his feet were taking him back to the main deck before his brain registered what was happening.

"Magnificent, isn't she?" said a voice behind him. He whirled to see Gabriel, hefting a short bladed sword.

"But she… she…" Sam stuttered, "She is the doctor's maid…"

"Is that what she told you?" the smaller man grinned. "No, she didn't tell you – she just let you make the sort of assumptions that men make about women, and your gender did the rest. You don't speak any Irish gaelic, do you?"

"I do not," Sam admitted, "Although she congratulated me on the pronounciation of her name. Aoire."

"You can say it, but you have no idea what it means?"

Before Sam could reply, he heard Veronica bellow "Hoist the colours!"

The crew took up the call, and way above their heads, a dark flag was raised to the top of the main mast, and crackled in the stiffening breeze. It depicted the head of a wolf, fangs bristling.

"You see, _aoire_ is the Irish word for somebody who tends sheep," Gabriel explained as Sam stared at the flag. "Veronica, of course, was the name of a pious woman of Jerusalem, but she only uses its full form when she wishes to be formal…"

The pieces snapped into place in Sam's astonished mind, supplying an Anglicised name he'd only heard mentioned in connection with improbable tales told by drunks and fools.

Veronica Aoire.

Ronnie Shepherd.

"So, let us find somewhere to stay out of the way," suggested Gabriel as Sam's thoughts reeled, "And be grateful, boyo – most men who see the _She-Wolf_ go into battle do not live to tell the tale."

* * *

Oo-er! Is Dirty Miranda the demented pirate plot bunny preparing to swash some buckles? Or is that just Becky scheming to undo Sam's belt when he's not looking? Feed the bunny reviews, and maybe we can find out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Dean had left orders that as soon as he was back aboard, the _Impala_ would sail, and so as soon as he and Campbell had dragged Andrew up the gangplank, the crew members manning the boats took up their oars and began to manoeuvre her away from the dock and into the river. By the time Andrew had been left in the brig, she was in the current, and heading for the open sea on the rush of the outward tide.

Castiel waited until his captain was on the quarterdeck, at the wheel, overseeing the departure of his ship as a father might watch over a beloved child, before he voiced his disapproval of Dean's activities.

"You have always prided yourself on the fact that those who crew the _Impala_ do so because they want to," he rumbled quietly, giving Dean the intense stare that the elder Winchester privately thought of as Castiel's Death Glare Of The End Of Days, "And many of them are doing now so soon after our last voyage out of loyalty to you, and affection for your brother, whom some of the older men watched grow up on this vessel, along with yourself. You have no right to impress a man, and even less to assault him in order to do so."

"I was not the one who did the assaulting," Dean shot back, still somewhat perplexed and confused, even unto the point of discombobulation, by the evening's events, "For he was the one who seized me by the neck, fit to strangle me. In truth, I believe he may have been capable of it, for I had not earlier noticed the size of his arms. If Campbell had not been there, I fear he may just have done so. God's death, Castiel, what I saw tonight…" he shook his head. "I am not habitually one to see devils lurking in shadows when I am in my cups, and Heaven knows it will take more than not even half a bottle of rum to set me singing, but this evening…"

"Perhaps what you experienced was the pricking of your conscience," huffed Castiel. "You have done a foul deed tonight."

Dean turned to stare hard at his First Mate, looking every inch a magnificent alpha male specimen of attractive and virile yet irresistibly vulnerable manhood. "I will walk barefoot to the gates of Hell, burn them down, and kick Satan himself in the cods if it is what I must do to find Sam, do not doubt it," he stated with utter conviction, "So I will do what I must to rescue my brother, and if The Almighty finds that offensive, then to Hell with Him, too."

Castiel frowned, but bit down on his unhappiness at Dean's casual blasphemy; if he was to allow himself to become upset every time Dean took the Lord's name in vain, he would long since have expired from an extended bout of nervous apoplexy. "Let us hope that Campbell has not injured him grievously," he murmured, "For we have no indication as yet what part he may have to play in this design of yours."

"Campbell claimed that the fellow has a skull as thick as the Tower's walls," Dean chuckled, "And complained of the jarring to his sword hand." He paused, frowning thoughtfully. "Although Andrew did complain that I had burned him."

"Burned him?" Castiel looked affronted. "Dean, you did not do so, surely you did not take a link to the man…"

"Indeed not! I am no barbarian!" protested Dean, "I was struggling to breathe, d'you see, and so I drew my dagger, and grabbed at his hand…" he extended his left hand and studied it. It did not seem to be in any way unusual or altered from its typical state: calloused from hard work aboard ship, the little finger crooked from an old injury, and the heavy silver ring he had habitually worn for many years. "And as I did so, the wretch let go, and accused me."

Castiel stared hard at Dean's hand; the young handsome Captain gave his best and most petticoat-dropping devil-may-care grin. "Castiel, I must demand that you cease to stare at my hand in such a manner, lest it should burst suddenly into flame under the intense glare."

Before Castiel could reply, there was a sudden high-pitched scream from somewhere on board.

"Take the helm," Dean snapped out to his First Mate as he drew his cutlass.

His handsome face drawn into a dangerous scowl and his lithe body taut, poised and ready for a fight, Dean presented a picture that would make ladies swoon and want to loosen their corsets as he headed for the source of the scream.

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Sam's head was still spinning with the sudden realisation of where he was, and whom he was with, but his experience and training took over as he followed Gabriel, and watched the other ship close the distance between them.

"Why are we running?" he asked, gazing up at the rigging and feeling the wind ruffle his magnificent man-mane once more as the _She-Wolf_ attempted to pick up speed. "You are right, this vessel is low in the water. That," he indicated their onrushing adversary, "Is a French Man-o-war; we cannot possibly outrun her."

"We cannot," agreed Gabriel, "But Captain Shepherd's first choice is always to attempt to avoid a fight; not a shot will be fired, but the other vessel will initiate the action. An attempt to avoid confrontation will establish that the other ship is, beyond doubt, the aggressor."

"I can anticipate that the Captain will not surrender," noted Sam drily, "And therefore the Frenchman will fire on us; what then?"

"Gabriel's face was sad. "We will return fire," he replied sadly, watching the other ship, "We will send her to the bottom. We will save whom we can, but many will die in payment for the greed of their senior officers, who have decided to undertake a little freebooting beyond their orders. It seems to me a harsh punishment for those who are simply doing their duty to their commander."

Sam looked doubtful. "You seem quite certain that the _She-Wolf_ will outgun her," he said dubiously.

Gabriel turned to look intently at Sam. "I am certain," he stated with utter conviction. "Sam, you have no doubt heard tell of the _She-Wolf_ before now."

"Aye," confirmed Sam, deftly side-stepping a hawser, "But I thought tell of her just a story, a tall tale. A mummer with which to frighten children and the gullible."

"What you have heard is probably exactly that," Gabriel suggested, "But for now, it seems that it falls to me to acquaint you with the reality." He gazed squarely at Sam. "Aboard this vessel, right now, you are going to see things that you will find fantastical. You will think your senses deceive you, you will think yourself surrounded by illusions, phantasms, or perhaps even devils. I assure you, it is all real. As real as you and me. And it is important that you understand this, and do not lose your composure. At all times, attempt to remain a composed as you can." His voice sounded urgent. "This vessel is in no danger – do not surrender yourself to rage on her behalf, I implore you. Should we be boarded, defend yourself, and others of the crew if you are so inclined, but remain calm."

Sam looked back, bewildered by the urgent and strange speech, but at that moment the French ship came into hailing distance. Sam's French was good, and so he understood clearly when the officer on the foredeck called on them to heave to, and prepare to be boarded. Aft, he heard Dr McGregor shout back politely that they were a merchant vessel, and demanded to be allowed to sail on unmolested, as a frank state of war was not declared. The Frenchman warned that they would be fired upon; Dr McGregor called back that they would return fire if attacked, and begged once more that the other vessel break off.

"It almost never works," Gabriel announced gloomily, "Diplomacy sounds like such a noble, civilized concept, does it not? Intelligent men speak rationally to each other, and treat fairly and politely with each other, for surely those with the wits God gave them should be able to furnish some accommodation…"

There was a familiar whistle, then the sudden shuddering thump and crashing as a cannonball thudded into the stern of the _She-Wolf._

"There are days when I despair for mankind," sighed Gabriel, taking hold of the bulwark railing. "I should hold on with diligence, if I were you."

"What?" asked Sam. He was absorbed in watching the men in the rigging – they appeared to be in preparation to perform a tack into the wind. "If we are to come about, do we not risk…"

There was no more time to consider the wisdom of the strategy; he heard the Captain's voice bellow "Heave to!", and then the _She-Wolf_ lurched under him, heeling hard to come about into the wind.

It should not have been possible, Sam's mind protested as he almost stumbled, a frigate-made ship should not have been able to come about so rapidly, but the men who were operating the sheets and lines were doing so as if they had preternatural strength, and turn rapidly she did. Not only did the move surprise the Frenchman, which was unprepared to slow down, it presented the _She-Wolf's_ broadside as their would-be assailant plunged past. Tactically, it was a brilliant, if improbable, move.

For the Frenchman it proved to be a fatal mistake.

Ronnie Shepherd bellowed the command to fire.

And all Hell broke loose.

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Dean was headed forward, seeking the source of the unmanly scream, when Charlie the cabin boy suddenly burst out of the hatch, and ran into him full tilt.

"Steady on, lad," he said, as Charlie looked up at him with panic-stricken eyes and gasped for breath. He looked down below deck. "What is it that has you running and crying out as though the very hounds of Hell pursue you?"

Charlie clutched at the captain, unable to speak for several moments, pointing back the way he'd come, trying to speak but unable to get actual words out. "Mo, mo, mon, mo," was all that the terrified cabin boy could utter.

Dean put a fatherly and reassuring arm around the cabin boy's shoulders.

"Calm down, boy," he admonished gently with a small smile, "Nothing has pursued you, you are safe. Take some deep breaths – good boy – now, tell me what distresses you so."

Charlie gulped for air, then finally managed to spit out a single word:

"Monster."

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Sam was well accustomed to the thunder and screech of cannon fire: he had been given command of a gun crew himself as a Midshipman, had been aboard for many gun drills and had seen action on duty. And yet the spectacle he was witnessing was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

The moment the French ship sailed past, the _She-Wolf's_ broadside erupted in fire and iron. The crews were disciplined, waiting for their opponent to come into range before firing in an orderly bow-to-stern sequence. The guns were heavy, 24 and 32 pounders, calibres that could be as deadly to their own crews as to an enemy, given the enormous weight, energy and recoils involved in deploying such munitions.

But then, but _then_ , the same guns opened fire again, barely a minute after they'd first discharged; the foremost guns were firing again before the first salvo had completely finished.

"That's impossible!" Sam shouted to nobody in particular over the noise, rushing to the other side of the ship, despite Gabriel's desperate entreaties not to expose himself to possible return fire.

The effect on the Frenchman was devastating: round after round punched into her hull, tearing it apart as if it were matchwood. The air was filled with the crashing of splintering timber and the screams of the men injured and dying, her gun crews being torn to pieces before they could even prepare to return fire. Intrigued, Sam leaned over, trying to peer in through the gun ports beneath him.

"Come away, you fool!" Gabriel shouted over the infernal cacophony, grabbing at Sam's arm, and yanking, "Their gun deck may be destroyed, but they likely have sharpshooters aloft, and you are one very, very large target…"

As if invoked by the protest, there was the shrill whistle of ball shot, and Sam felt a sting at his shoulder. Looking down, he saw a graze on his upper arm begin to bleed.

The _She-Wolf's_ guns continued to blaze, and with a drawn-out groan, the main mast of the interloper wavered, then fell, men raining from it to land broken on the deck.

With a noise that definitely qualified as a shriek, Gabriel seized Sam's arm, and began to drag him away from the railing. Sam shrugged him off, and headed aft.

"Where are you going?" demanded Gabriel, having to perform a strange scrabbling half-run to keep up with Sam's strides. "You have been wounded! You should go forward, so Dr McGregor can dress that so it will not become corrupted!"

"How do they fire so rapidly?" Sam was speaking to himself rather than Gabriel. "The second salvo began before the first had ended! That is impossible ! And for heavy guns, utterly unimaginable! No gun crewed by men can possibly fire so rapidly! How do they do it? I must know!"

"Sam, please, just wait," he didn't heed the desperate note in Gabriel's voice as he headed below, making his way to the gun deck, his mind whirling with the possibilities of what His Majesty's ships of the line could achieve with such a rate of fire, "Sam, stop! Oh, great merciful Father in Heaven, at least remember what I told you…"

Below deck roiled with familiar activity: the heavy sulphurous stench of gunsmoke hung in the air, and the close space echoed and rang with the shouting of orders. A small part of his mind noted approvingly that there was no panic, no unnecessary floundering: the atmosphere was tense, but calm, the crew clearly well drilled and disciplined. However, that still could not possibly account for what he had witnessed.

"If you please, sir," piped a young voice, and he automatically stepped out of the way; the young powder monkey rushed by purposefully, nimbly making his way down the next ladder to the gun deck.

There was a streak of grey, and Sam paused as a large dog, larger than a Greyhound, with a bag of powder in its mouth, followed the boy.

He idly noted the idea of training dogs to act as powder monkeys as he headed for the ladder – ignoring Gabriel's pleas, he slid expertly down the steep railings, determined to see this astonishing crew in action for himself.

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Dean smiled inwardly, suddenly reminded how often his brother had claimed to have seen monsters when they were both young, although those vexing Sam were more usually to be found under his bunk. "There are no monsters, Charlie," he reassured the boy, "Tis but your eyes playing tricks upon you, in the dimness of the moonlight." He called for a jug of small ale, and poured a mug. "Drink. Slowly," he commanded, watching Charlie do as he was bid. "Now, take your time, lad, tell me what you think you saw, then we shall go below together, and I shall demonstrate that you have nothing to fear."

Disbelief in his eyes, Charlie began. "Well, sir, I went below, as you told me to, with water and bread for the, the, the, person you brought aboard, you know sir, him in the brig."

Dean nodded encouragingly.

"Well, I did as you ordered, sir, intending to leave it where he could get to it if he wished, and, and, and I put it down, and, he, he…"

"He what, Charlie?" Dean asked quietly, thinking that if the wretch had tried to hurt this most inoffensive of his crew members, he would make the knave sorry, aye, and do it in front of Charlie, too.

"He… he wasn't… he wasn't…" Charlie looked like he was about to cry.

A resolute expression formed on Dean's face. "Let us go there now," he stated, "And you will show me what has frightened you. I promise you, Charlie, if our 'guest' has done anything to frighten you or hurt you, I will have the bastard keel-hauled."

Charlie's posture made it clear that he was not going below again, for love or money.

"Very well," Dean smiled reassuringly, "You stay here, nay, head for the quarterdeck and remain with Castiel. I shall go below and have words with our visitor." He drew his cutlass, and hooked a small lantern from the rigging. "And if necessary, I shall beat answers out of him on your behalf."

"Captain, no!" Charlie yelped, but Dean was already gone.

In the darkness, he made his way silently but quickly to the brig, cursing the strange man and the necessity of bringing him aboard the _Impala._ There was little to see beyond the lantern's tiny circle of wan yellow light; all he could make out was a shapeless pile on the floor.

As he watched, it moved, ever so slightly.

"Andrew?" he called, "Andrew, are you astir?"

"The only response he received was a low, rumbling grumble. No, he thought, it was a growl.

"Andrew," Dean growled back, raising the lantern as he approached, "What did you say to the boy? What did you do? The lad is terrified. If I find that you have in any way harmed him, I swear to you, I will…"

There was another growl, and in startlement Dean nearly dropped the light.

Andrew was no longer in the brig.

In his place, there lounged what looked like an enormous wolf.

* * *

Note that the wearing of wedding rings on the left hand is actually quite a recent (historically speaking) development, so in the Pirate!Jimiverse, Dean would've worn his silver ring on his left hand; if he had ever appeared with a ring on the ring finger of his right hand, women in ports all over the known navigable world would no doubt have sighed with disappointment.

Dirty Miranda is a persistent little bunny - she's been wondering what roles the Denizens think they would do, should they find themselves aboard either vessel. (I'm sure that Leahelisabeth wants to be the Doctor's Assistant In Charge Of Sponging Down Navy Officers If They Become Feverish, what with her being one of the depraved beldames of the Jimiverse.)

Feed the bunny reviews, and let's see where this loony leoporid intends us to go next...


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Sam had decided long ago that a ship's gun deck in action was probably a reasonably authentic working model of Hell: the heat, the noise, the choking stinking smoke, the atmosphere of lethal mayhem barely tamed to Man's design and ready to escape control at any moment would surely convince anyone who was not acquainted with naval combat that they were forsaken by God, damned to Perdition.

It was an environment with which Sam was well familiarised, though – he had first been permitted to 'fire' one of the _Impala's_ pieces when he was five years old, his ears stuffed with wadding and his little hand grasping the botefeux on top of the gunner's knuckles as the man guided the smouldering spill to the touch hole. While he could not claim that it held no terrors for him, for there was much that could go wrong on a gun deck with little or no warning and only a complete fool or a liar would claim to be completely nonchalant, it had long since ceased to shock and daze him. He made his way through the haze, emerging from the roiling clouds like a smith of the gods striding fearlessly through a demonic forge, the heat producing a sheen of sweat on his bare chest and most aesthetically sculpted abs to produce a picture that would no doubt have reduced Becky to making incoherent noises of delight had she been present to witness the spectacle of such a fit and toned specimen of magnificent manhood striding purposefully and shirtlessly across the deck.

However, the moment he cleared the smoke, the words 'shocked' and 'dazed' were utterly inadequate to describe what he felt. For even through the blinding gritty haze blanketing everything, the sight before him left him speechless, stunned, and unable to believe what he was seeing, until a sudden flash of memory from the terrible fate of the Stanford only a day ago came crashing into his memory

 _they were not fighting against men…_

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Dean had been sailing the known waters of the world since he was a small child, first under his father's captaincy and then as his own commander – he had visited many strange foreign places, fabulous places, and seen things that any stay-at-home landlubber would credit only as the deranged imaginings of a mind that spent too much time gazing at the bottom of a tankard, or the endless open ocean. (He had, as a result, visited many strange foreign women, fabulous women, and done things with them that his brother did credit only as the deranged imaginings of a mind that spend too much time gazing at the female form, but given that so many women seemed to regard him as Adonis reincarnate he did not have to invent the tales with which he liked to regale his disapproving brother as oft as possible).

No, Dean was not a philosopher, having no time for the cut and thrust of discussion and debate that his brother seemed to enjoy so much, no, 'how' and 'why' did not concern him: he could see what what right before his eyes, and did not care how or why it was there – the fact was, it _was_ there, and that is what he would deal with.

Approaching the brig cautiously, looking bodice-bustingly masculine and dangerous, he lifted the lantern.

Sprawled on the floor was indeed a creature, thick of pelt and large of size, with a canine appearance. It rested its massive head on two huge paws that sported claws the like of which he had only seen on a bearskin from the colonies. As he moved closer, he saw a piercing blue eye watching him; it was not full of madness and mindless rage as he had seen in rabid dogs before; they regarded him with measured intelligence.

"What are you?" he demanded in a manly and commanding tone. "I left a man here, and yet I return to find a… a monster. What are you?"

The monstrous thing lifted its head, the muzzle full of teeth showing and suddenly reminding him of the strange vision he'd had earlier in the evening. He received the decided impression that it was grinning at him.

"What are you?" he repeated. "Show yourself?"

Moving slowly, the monstrosity carefully yet fluidly climbed to its feet.

Upright, it was even more terrifying: it stood over seven feet tall – Dean noted idly that it would even tower over Sam – a body that stood upright on two long doglike limbs, physique bulging with muscle, a bizarre mixture of the body of a large man, and a… there was no other way to put it, a gigantic wolf.

As if sensing his complete astonishment, the apparition before him yawned hugely and stretched, allowing him to see the way the muscles in its arms and chest bunched and moved. Scratch that, thought Dean, it wasn't an it – even the shaggy pelt of dark fur that covered the entire body could not completely disguise the fact that 'it' was most definitely, unambiguously, male.

He dragged his gaze up to the face.

The long muzzle offered him a decidedly doggy grin, and the enormous wolf-thing winked at him.

Dean's mouth dropped open in utter bemusement.

Shaking its – his, Dean reminded himself, his – head, the monster let out a humphing sound that hinted at amusement, and dropped to its haunches, lowering and turning the looming head as if to regard him more carefully with one eye.

It was then that Dean noticed the scar slashing through the other eye, and the milky stare of the useless clouded orb within that socket…

Dean's voice sounded small and lost in the empty echoing hull. "Andrew?" he whispered. "Are you… dear God, are you Andrew?"

The wolf managed a bow that was lithe and surprisingly graceful, utterly at odds with its appearance.

Dean sat down heavily on a cask behind him. "What… dear God, what is the meaning of this?" he rasped. "What manner of, of, demon abomination from The Pit are you?"

The wolf curled its lip, and turned away from him, settling once more on the rank floor, careless of the filth and muck.

"I do not believe that he is diabolical, although I do not pretend for a moment to know the theology of whether such a creature has a soul, or may hope for the redemption of Heaven."

Castiel's level and rational voice broke the spell, and Dean turned around to see his First Mate standing behind him, carefully regarding the brig.

He offered Dean a small smile. "Charlie told me what he had seen. He is a good boy, not predisposed to confecting stories or telling lies."

"Castiel, what is he?" Dean asked plaintively, "Have you ever heard tell of a man who may transform himself into a monster?"

"Many times," Castiel replied, "For the mythology of heathens both ancient and modern is full of such tales. But to this one, there is apparently a grain of truth." He glanced up at where the moonlight found its way through chinks. "Tonight is the last night of the full moon. And he claimed to have been 'burned' when you grabbed his arm – with the hand on which you wear your silver ring. Dean, this is Andrew. He is not a demon; he is a werewolf."

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When the _Stanford_ 's crew had come to hand-to-hand fighting with what they had assumed was a buccaneer, shock and disbelief had unmanned and frozen many of them.

 _they were not fighting against men..._

As he watched, the reason for the rapid rate of fire of heavy cannon became clear.

The _She-Wolf's_ guns were not crewed by men.

Each piece was attended by two enormous… _wolves_ was the word his brain supplied, although they stood upright, with long arms and legs, and moved with surprising agility and speed for creatures of such size.

Whilst the higher functions of his brain were stunned into inaction, part of his mind could not help but admire the way they worked: they were well trained and disciplined, each pair moving around their cannon in a well-rehearsed dance. handling the swabbers and rammers dextrously.

One such large animal turned and barked to another behind the line of cannon: a second wolf tossed a 32-pound shot through the air as easily as a child would throw a ball, and the other caught it deftly before dropping it in the muzzle. Once it was loaded, the two wolves put their huge arms to the carriage, and ran the gun out with practised ease, one of them touching a glowing spill to the firing hole as soon as the piece hit the port. The recoil sent it crashing back, and the swab was deployed before it had even come completely to rest.

The small boy he had seen just moments earlier before scampered past him, with his dog – no, it was a smaller wolf-creature, perhaps a juvenile of the ones crewing the cannon – and barrelled up the ladder, no doubt headed for the magazine once more.

"What in the name of all that is holy am I seeing?" Sam demanded of nobody in particular in a bewildered voice, wondering if perhaps he had taken a head wound and he was at that very moment not on the gun deck, but lying delirious in the captain's bunk, ranting and hallucination as the blow to his brain deranged his good sense and proper thoughts.

"This is the secret of the _She-Wolf_ ," came a reply he wasn't expecting.

He whirled around to see Gabriel watching him carefully.

"This is her crew," the smaller man went on, "Not all of them are men, completely human, realised in God's own image. This is real, and you are not wandering in your wits. Also, I suggest to you that such an artillery strategy would not be practical for His Majesty's ships; to begin with, I have heard tell that the First Sea Lord is allergic to dog hair. So, now that your curiosity has been satisfied, let us go back above deck, where the noise and smoke is marginally less horrifying, and…"

There was a shrieking whine as the Frenchman's gunners returned fire, and the timbers beside one of the cannon exploded inwards.

Sam's body reacted before his head did: he ducked behind an upright, pulling Gabriel with him, and winced as he heard splinters hiss through the air, feeling some of them catch his arm where he broad shoulders did not entirely fit within the narrow band of shelter offered by the timber. The moment the impact was done, he was in motion, his training and experience bursting into action.

A naked man was on the deck, screaming obscenities at the jagged piece of timber projecting from his leg. Sam grabbed him under the arms and dragged him clear, shouting to Gabriel as he did so.

"Get him to the doctor!" he yelled, "Find somebody to help you, and get him to…"

There was a shuddering groan as the _She-Wolf_ heeled over again, either taking evasive action or manoeuvring for another broadside, and Sam looked up with horror to see that one of the heavy lines tethering the cannon to the hull against the recoil had been blown completely free by the French shot, and the other was left damaged. The entire gun carriage, several of its members splintered, was sliding sideways.

Shoving Gabriel out of the way, he bellowed "Loose cannon!" at the top of his voice and grabbed the injured man again, ignoring his yowls of pain and and barely yanking him out of the way in time as around three tons of artillery piece swung in an arc, held only by a single tethering line. It crashed into the hull, rocking on its carriage, and damaging the already-cracked timbers further.

Sam grabbed the other wolf-thing by one large shaggy arm-limb. "Get your mate to the doctor!" he shouted. When it let out an uncertain whine, he went on. "Your piece is damaged and cannot be fired, but your crewmate is still very much alive and in need of assistance!" The wolf looked to the cannon again. "I'll secure it!" Sam roared, "Get him above deck now!"

He didn't notice as the wolf hauled the cursing man over its shoulder and loped for the ladder; he eyed the cannon as if it was a wild animal, poised to spring at him. Letting the whole thing go overboard would be a possibility, but attempting to move it would be dangerous, and would require a lot of muscle power that could not be spared; immobilising it was the least undesirable option. The _She-Wolf_ would turn again soon, come about to try to blow in the stern of the French vessel, then pick up the wind again for another broadside, which gave him a narrow window of opportunity.

He grabbed for a coil of heavy rope and frantically began to fashion a locking loop knot, eyeing the cannon and keeping an ear out for the command to tack.

"What are you doing?" screamed Gabriel.

"This gun must be secured before we tack!" Sam shouted back, looking for the most secure strut to which he could attach the line, "If the cannon moves again it may tear out its other tether, and if it rolls free from the carriage, it will make this deck look like the Devil's own game of nine pins!"

"It will look like the Devil's own pastry pin if it rolls over you!" Gabriel yelled, grabbing his arm, "And you will make a not-terribly-amusing lid for his favourite giblet pie!"

Sam shook him off with a snarl that made Gabriel shrink back. "Be off, then!" Sam growled, "This must be done!" There was another shuddering boom, and a scream as a French round hit home. "Another man is down! Make yourself useful, and get him to the foc's'le!"

Gabriel darted off as Sam took a deep breath, his face a picture of determination, and darted in at the damaged cannon. The rear axle still looked more or less intact, he decided, so he aimed for that. Cursing the size of his hands, he hooked the loop around the greasy wood, hoping that once he had it caught it might jam between wheel and carriage to give it extra purchase, then looked to the hull for some point to tie it off.

The ball had punched in the timbers on either side of a hull rib, so gritting his teeth and ignoring the splinters, he drew back his fist and knocked the damaged planking out on either side of it, frantically pulling the length around the stout oak, hoping he could get enough turns to make a hitch that would hold the loose piece…

Above the racket of the gun deck, he heard the call to come about.

Swearing a blue streak that would have left his brother surprised to know that he knew words like that, let alone was prepared to say them out loud, Sam looked around frantically for somewhere to tie the line off, realising even as he put a final turn around the strut that there wasn't time…

The hull creaked as the ship heeled; the gun carriage groaned ominously, and began to slide again.

Gritting his teeth, cords standing out in his arms and shoulders and magnificently developed laterals straining, Sam gripped the rope as tightly as he could, and held on. Please let this work, he prayed, bracing a leg against the strut, please let this work, please let this work, I don't want to die as flat as a griddle cake…

The rope strained and creaked, the gun carriage groaned and teetered, on the point of tipping and rolling – but it held.

Sweating from every pore, every sinew stretched near to breaking point, Sam held on, red and purple spots dancing in his vision as the strain tore at his muscles and joints until he was sure his arms were going to separate entirely from his body, until finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the vessel completed the turn.

The gun rocked back upright as the deck levelled, and he let out a gasping breath, chest heaving as he wiped the sweat from his eyes and flung his hair out of his face. He heard what sounded like a whuffing noise of amusement from behind him.

"Well done, barra."

He turned to see Douglas the carpenter smile at him, and take the rope from his hands. "We've a moment to tie this off now," the older man went on, "The starboard will fire now – lend me your aid, and we'll secure 'er before we do that again. I swear, 'tis the Captain's desire one day to make this ship turn on a ha'penny, just to see if she can tip anyone overboard."

"Starboard… side?" Sam panted, drawing in great lungfuls of air, "Has the Frenchman… not surrendered?"

"Nay," Douglas sounded unhappy, "They never ha' the sense to do that – it all happens so quickly with the _She-Wolf_ , and by the time they work it out, it's too late – but she's holed below the water, so…"

His words were lost as the thunder of the guns on the other side of the ship opened up, maintaining a ruinous rate of fire until the full broadside was discharged.

A long, carrying howl sounded from above, and the crew, wolf-monsters and men, scrambled to get up to the main deck.

"What in the name of all that is holy was that?" demanded Sam.

"They'll try to board, and take the _She-Wolf_ ," Douglas told him grimly, "The hannae choice, barra, their own vessel will be sinkin' fast, they have to try to take us, or die. So grab your steel, lad, then get up there, and prepare to defend yoursel'."

* * *

Oh dear, sounds like there's some definite buckling of swashes (or swashing of buckles) coming up for Sam - and Dean is getting more instruction in veterinary anatomy than he really ever wanted. What happens next? Feed Dirty Miranda reviews, and let's find out!


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Dean and Castiel ushered Charlie into the captain's cabin, where Dean seated the cabin boy, poured him a copious amount of overproof rum, and pushed it into the boy's unresisting hands. "Get that into you," he instructed, "Bobby would tell you that it's good for whatever ails you. Do not give me your Deathly Stare Of Puritanical Disapproval, Castiel."

"I do not approve of encouraging the boy to drink intoxicating liquor," the First Mate murmured. "It clouds the mind, perverts the wits, and pollutes the temple of the body."

"I was drinking, gambling and whoring my way around the Caribbean and back when I was not much past Charlie's age," Dean grinned, giving the cabin boy a pat on the shoulder, and topping up his drink. "It will put hair on your chest, and make a man of you, Charlie. And settle your nerves also." He picked up the bottle. "And certainly mine will benefit from a small measure of settling." He poured himself a drink. "Now, Castiel, what in God's name has possessed you, of all people, to start believing in faerie stories?"

"Stories must start somewhere," Castiel replied equably, frowning as Charlie took another deep drink and spluttered, then patting the lad on the back. "The story of the werewolf, a man who is turned into a monstrous wolf, dates back to ancient times, and is well known in the traditions of the Germanic and Scandinavian peoples, who settled in England a thousand years ago. They transform during the time of the full moon, becoming monstrous by its light, and cannot be killed with conventional weapons. If nothing else," his face creased into a small amused smile, "You surely must use the wits God gave you and believe your own eyes."

Dean let out a snort of disbelief. "Cannot be killed?" he scoffed. "I have seen many strange things, Castiel, but an animal that cannot be killed, that is something I have never encountered. You put enough lead, iron or steel into something, it will die. If it can be made to bleed, we can kill it."

"Tradition has it that the creature can be killed with silver," Castiel added, "A metal that is associated in alchemic wisdom with the moon, and is deemed to be efficacious against all manner of unnatural creatures."

"Is it even so?" Dean looked thoughtfully at the ring on his left hand. "I should cut a foppish sight, wielding a cutlass of silver. And yet, it would be a pretty thing, though completely impractical – silver is a metal for coin or for jewellery, not for weaponry." He shook his head. "And yet I must believe it, I suppose – I have seen it with my own eyes, aboard my own ship, and so I must believe that such things may walk God's green earth."

 _"_ 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy'," intoned Castiel in the voice of someone quoting.

Dean frowned. "I still have not forgiven you for that night," he growled at his First Mate. "You told me it would be, and I repeat your words directly, 'An enriching experience'. I could understand one sentence in two, but understand not why the prince did not simply run his uncle through the moment he learned the truth of his father's death – 'tis not right for a man to mope about, talking to himself or to skulls, for that matter, like a swooning maid. 'Twould have been better for him to acquaint Ophelia with the joys of Aphrodite, take the crown for himself, then clear the court of ill-wishers and evildoers with cold steel. Not," he rolled his eyes, "That he would have found much joy in 'Ophelia', for I swear, 'she' had a better moustache than I could ever grow, and you cannot tell me that donning women's dress and simpering about a stage is any way for a man to make his way in this world…"

"Had you been the author, certainly it would have been a much shorter play," nodded Castiel.

"But now, this is not a play," sighed Dean. "I have a monster, your 'werewolf', on board my ship."

"At your own doing," Castiel reminded him.

"Yes, yes, you make your point," growled Dean, "But now he is here, what am I to do with him? I cannot let the crew know what lurks in the brig, they may not mutiny, but they will tear him apart. And I need him to find the _She-Wolf_. And yet, a wolf that would make my little brother seem puny will not be easy to hide. No-one may hide their true nature for long; there are no secrets aboard ship, eventually all is revealed…"

Charlie choked and spluttered on his rum again, and Dean absent-mindedly patted him on the back.

"When the influence of the full moon diminishes with moonset, he will resume his human form," Castiel answered, "Or so the legends indicate. It may be possible to give out that he is given to violent lunatic rages after dark as a result of his injuries, and confine him so until the moon wanes."

"Given his disposition towards me, mayhap I shall need to confine him regardless," Dean sighed, "For I do not take him to be a man who will quietly bear the theft of his liberty for the benefit of another."

"That may be," mused Castiel, "But if his skills and experience as a ship's Master are bone fide, he may prove invaluable to assist you with navigation."

"There is nothing amiss with my navigation," muttered Dean. "I admit, Sam is more efficient and fluid in his calculations, and Charlie here," he paused to smile at the cabin boy, who managed a wan smile in return, "Has shown himself to be most capable under my brother's tuition…"

"Indeed," Castiel agreed, "In fact, had it not been for Charlie, we might well have fetched up somewhere with even more Spaniards in residence on our voyage before the last."

"…But I can read a map as well as the next man, aye, better than many…" Dean stated firmly. "And Mexico is not such a bad place – too many Spaniards, I grant you, but the food is truly marvellous, although I recall that on one voyage with my father, we discovered that the local cuisine had the most astonishing effect on my brother, a Christian man would have thought the Horn of Gabriel sounding in the middle of the night…"

"I am simply suggesting," Castiel cut in, "That offering him employment rather than confinement may go some way to gaining a measure of co-operation."

"You are probably right," Dean noted in a resigned tone. "I have known ships to have cats resident, or dogs aboard as officers' companions, but a gigantic wolf?" He took a long drink. "I need no crazed animals aboard."

There was a sudden fluttering rush, and a green streak shot in through the open window to land awkwardly on the table.

"Bollocks!"

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Sam grabbed the cutlass he'd been given and joined the general progress to the main deck. The sight that greeted him was just as horrific as what he'd seen below.

The French vessel was practically destroyed, blown to pieces by the rapid cannon fire, and sinking fast as it bobbed against the hull of the _She-Wolf._ The sea was filled with floating corpses, and struggling men who would soon be corpses.

Those marines who had been marshalled in preparation to board the _She-Wolf_ did so in scrambling desperation to escape the fate of their vessel's crew, but fell back in horror at the sight of the giant wolves on board, some of them dropping their muskets and jumping overboard. A number of the hardier souls actually managed to fire their weapons, but that didn't seem to have much of an effect on the beasts; they yapped and howled in pain, sounding more comically outraged than actually hurt; astonishingly, Sam noted that none of them were moving in to try to kill the French, although they surely could have done so easily with simple swipes of their huge claws.

Above the noise of sporadic gunfire and the screams of the injured and dying, he could hear Gabriel's voice pleading in French for the would-be attackers to lay down their arms and surrender, they would not be harmed, but the sight of the monstrous crew seemed to overwhelm their senses.

The French ship's hull shifted suddenly, and with a drawn out groan, she began to list hard, taking on water at an ever increasing rate. The screams of those trapped below the anti-boarding netting, realising their fate, broke Sam's inaction. Casting aside the cutlass, he took the short dagger in one hand, and headed overboard in a headlong dive, knifing the water like a whaler's harpoon.

He and his brother were peculiar in this aspect; it was most unusual for a European sailor to know how to swim, being as so many of them were from inland towns and villages, and water was seen as dangerous and unhealthy, but John Winchester had insisted that both his boys learn, and so they had. As lithe as a dolphin he made his way to the sinking hull, clambering up the steeply listing deck to hack at the netting, while desperate hands grasped at him and piteous cries for succour assailed his ears. But anti-boarding netting was made to be difficult to cut, tarred and sanded to the purpose, and inexorably as the water rose around him his efforts were in vain – with a horrified gasp, he tore himself away from the doomed souls grabbing at him, and swam clear as the ship rolled, and went under.

He hung in the water, horrified for the trapped men, wondering how many of the _Stanford_ 's crew had met just such a fate, when he heard a gurgling, choking noise behind him.

"..S'cours…"

He turned in the water.

A bloodied man – a boy, really – clutched a splinter of wood, but was succumbing to his wounds, shock, and the cold water, his grip sliding as he spoke.

"Au… 'cours…"

As he slid beneath the waves, Sam dived after him, grabbing him and hauling him to the surface, kicking furiously to keep the lolling head above the water as he had practised so often with his brother when they were just children, making a game of 'saving' each other whilst the crew looked on in indulgent bemusement.

He heard other splashes and looked around to see some of the wolf-monsters following him into the water, swimming strongly, nosing amongst the bodies bobbing in the wreckage-strewn water; they too were looking for survivors. There were few, and mostly the creatures busied themselves with retrieving the dead.

"Over here, barra!" he heard Douglas call urgently; the man was dangling at the end of a boarding net, cast down from the deck of the _She-Wolf_ to dangle into the water. Sam rolled over and kicked strongly towards the net, where Douglas wound a rope around this burden and the boy was carefully hauled aboard. Sam scrambled up the netting and heaved himself back aboard deck, wincing as his injuries, which he had determinedly ignored during the battle, began to make themselves felt.

He made his way back aboard, where he stood, dripping wet, chest heaving as he sought to get his breath back, long hair clinging at his face and his trousers clinging revealingly to his legs, shivering suddenly as the cold breeze chilled his skin. With the urgency of the encounter diminished to the less hectic work of assisting the wounded and assessing the damage to the ship, he stood at something of a loss, wondering what he should do, when he heard a voice beside him say quietly but firmly,

"Lieutenant Winchester, come with me."

He looked down to see Veronica – Ronnie, his brain corrected him, Ronnie Shepherd, Captain of the _She-Wolf_. Her gaze brooked no insurrection, but she spoke further. "You have acquitted yourself honourably, sir, and bravely – I am informed of your exploits on the gun deck. Matthew owes you his life, and the loss of one of the 32 pounders would've been a grievous one, and it is thanks to you and your quickness of wit and action that we have lost neither man nor gun. But now you must return to the brig, and I must give you the explanation that you deserve…"

"Ronnie!" The anxious call cut her off, and Sam recognised Doctor McGregor's voice lifted to cut through the babble. The good doctor himself crouched beside the deck where wounded were being assessed for the severity of their injuries – Sam noted that it was the young Frenchman he'd pulled from the water over whom the doctor was bent, a desperate expression on his face. "Now, idiot child, _right now_!"

Sam was astonished to hear the vessel's Captain be addressed so, even though she apparently enjoyed a certain familiarity with her crew that was more in keeping with what he knew aboard the _Impala_ than any Navy ship. But that was nothing compared to the astonishment he felt at what he witnessed next.

Shedding her clothes as she ran, Ronnie was completely naked by the time she'd covered half the distance to the doctor and the dying boy, then suddenly, mid-stride, she leaped headlong, and Sam thought she must fall to crash full length onto the deck…

Where moments before a woman had been, one of the gigantic wolf things appeared, and loped to the doctor's side.

Before Sam could let out a cry of horror, the thing opened its jaws, and sank its teeth into the boy's arm.

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"What in the name of Hades are you doing here?" Dean demanded of the parrot as it perched on the table, looking decidedly dishevelled. "You were given in payment to Rowena!"

"Bollocks!" Crowley repeated, cocking a beady eye at Dean. With a sullen avian muttering, the bird hopped to the rim of Dean's tankard, and leaned down into it to get a drink. "Lucifer's bum!"

"He is a most determined escapee, to have located us this far from port," noted Castiel, something approaching a smile finding its way onto his face.

Crowley took another drink, then turned to face Castiel. "Bollocks," he pronounced, fluffing his feathers grumpily.

Dean sighed. "I should set Charlie the task of teaching you to say something less affronting," he mused. "What do you think, Charlie? Set aside five minutes of every watch to teach Crowley to say something presentable."

Charlie didn't look convinced. "What shall I teach him, Captain?" the boy asked in his still strangely high voice, finishing on a hiccup.

"Acceptable phrases for speaking birds include 'Hello! Hello!', 'Who's a pretty boy?', and an allusion to the fact that the bird would enjoy something crunchy to eat," supplied Castiel.

"Yes, that would be much an improvement," agreed Dean, fixing the bird with an authoritative stare. "Crowley want a cracker? Crowley want a cracker?"

"Bugger off, wanker," replied the bird, turning to get another drink from the tankard.

"Make that ten minutes of practice, twice a watch," Dean amended, smiling at Charlie, "Why don't you head for your hammock, lad, you've had a shock tonight."

Charlie stood up, swaying, offered Dean a slightly lopsided smile, and hiccupped gently.

"I shall see him to his bed," Castiel intoned, ushering the stumbling boy from the cabin, "And I shall see you in the morning."

"Indeed," Dean grinned, watching them go. He hoped that Castiel would not lecture at Charlie too ferociously, and yet if he did, the boy would in all likelihood remember little of it the next day.

The _Impala_ rocked gently, the floor under his feet moving with the familiar and comforting rhythm he'd known all his life, the quiet watchfulness of a ship at sea settled over her as the bell sounding the middle watch rang. He snuffed out the lamp, leaving his cabin illuminated only by the light of the full moon, and made ready to turn in himself, attired only in a thin pair of linen drawers. It was in all probability the most comfortable bunk aboard, but Dean found himself unable to sleep – worry for his brother had kept him awake on many nights, and on this night he felt the responsibility for Sam's well-being that had been with him since his baby brother was born particularly deeply.

He stepped out of his cabin, the breeze ruffling his scruffy dark blonde hair and raising goose bumps on his bare skin, the moonlight picking out the scars and tattoos and silhouetting his lithe body against the darkness of the waves below. Raising a hand to the amulet at his neck, he gazed out at the sea, the vulnerable expression on his face one that his crew would not recognize, his plump bottom lip trembling slightly, and wondered:

 _Sam, where are you?_

* * *

Oh, Dirty Miranda, fluffy bunny of purple pirate prose - somebody should write her a sea shanty. Meanwhile, send her reviews - oh, and what do you think would be a more suitable phrase for Crowley to learn to say?


	9. Chapter 9

Jeezuz suffering feck - I have been smited (smote? smitten? smat? Let's go with smat, that's exactly how it feels) I have been smat by The Hideous And Depressingly Solid Giant Parsnip Of Mundane Reality until I am black and blue. It even frightened the plot bunnies away. It certainly frightened me. Srsly. Sometimes Real Life just doesn't leave time or energy for the important things. Like fanfic, and crochet, and cheesemaking, and brewing kombucha, and garden pottering. Roll on retirement...

Anyway, to make it up to you, there may be one or two OCs who seem vaguely familiar in this chapter, and there may be more to come...

* * *

 **Chapter Nine**

When Sam thought about it later, the recollection was as if it had been a strange dream, not easily or clearly recalled, as if he had been in the throes of a tropical fever, or perhaps experiencing the strange effects of a peculiar green tobacco that his brother once insisted he try in the Caribbean.

The last thing he did recall clearly, as astonishing as it was, was seeing the Captain transform into one of the giant wolf-creatures, and bite the young Frenchman he'd just hauled from the water.

He let out a shout of "No!", horrified that the boy he'd only just saved was apparently about to be devoured by one of the monstrous abominations aboard, and then his legs were carrying him in that direction before he could even think about it.

Actually, no, the _very_ last thing he could remember was the sound of tearing fabric, and part of his mind thinking that tearing his pants when they had been especially made for him and he'd only been wearing them for a short time was terribly terribly bad manners.

And then, then, everything… _changed_ …

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Dean was awake to watch the sunrise; it was not just worry about his brother pulling him from sleep, it was his habit to watch the light grow and bloom in the East, the colours of the sky, the clouds and the water running through a gamut of deep shades towards daylight. It was a chance to take stock of what weather might be oncoming, to be alone with his thoughts, and to stand looking masculine and yet vulnerable with the breeze ruffling his bed-tousled hair and rustling the thin sleeping shirt to show the planes of his chest and the perkiness of his nipples in the cool morning air.

After he'd dressed then stepped back out of his cabin, an itch on the back of his neck told him that he was not as alone as he'd thought he would be.

Raising his eyes, he saw the outline of someone, leaning on the gunwales of the high poop deck, gazing out to sea. As he watched, the man lifted his head, looking like an animal scenting the air, but did not turn towards him before addressing him.

"Good morning, Captain, I trust you slept more comfortably than I."

Recognition hit Dean as he reached discreetly for one of the weapons that were always about his person. "Andrew," he snapped, his top lip doing the adorable and yet extremely sexy small quivering thing that would have had ladies swooning if there had been any around to admire it. "You may think that you have made a friend, but when I discover who let you out against my orders, I will flog the son-of-a-dog myself, and he will be no friend of yours further."

The older man casually turned, and smiled slowly. "I let myself out; your puny brig was no match for my… less civilised self," he rumbled with amusement, "Given that you have seen what I am, are you really so sure you could put stripes on my back? For I tell you, I have been pressed, assaulted and confined, without my consent, and given the circumstances I may not be of a mind to submit quietly." He stared at Dean. "You know what I am."

Dean stared right back. "I have seen you in… bestial form," he growled, "I know that you have a feral aspect, that you scared the liver and lights out of my cabin boy, and that…"

"Cabin boy?" Andrew interrupted, looking genuinely confused. "I have not laid eyes on any cabin _boy_..."

"Well, he has seen you," Dean continued, "At my orders, providing you with some small measure of comfort, and he was left terrified – what did you do? Did you threaten him?"

"Him?" Andrew practically yelped. "Do you mean the youngster who brought the vittles? But…" he stopped short, pausing, then a small smile stole onto his face. "I am sorry for that," he said eventually, "I did not mean to startle the… lad. But you cannot blame… him for being affronted by my appearance."

"I believe I may have heard him feeding the fishes in the middle of the night," mused Dean, "For the boy is small for his age, and does not hold his drink well, though I would see it make a man of him."

The small smile stayed on Andrew's face. "Boys grow and mature at their own pace," he stated, "I have known others to be just as your boy is; I am sure your… lad is just as he is supposed to be. Please reassure him that I mean him no harm, and will not hurt him. I never mean harm to those who mean no harm to me. I cannot control my form, Captain, but I assure you, I can and do control my actions." He turned to gaze down the length of the ship, where other figures were about the business of a ship at sea, which never completely stops. "In fact, I believe that, er, he is above deck already this morning. Although perhaps not entirely recovered of his wits, since he seems to be in earnest conversation with what looks like a parrot." He stared at the figure at the other end of the ship. "In fact, I believe it may be an argument. And the parrot may be winning. They be terribly intelligent birds, in truth."

"That is at my urging, trying to curb the wretched creature's foul tongue," Dean sighed, "For where that bird learned to curse so roundly without being able to produce so much as a single civil greeting is beyond me." Cautiously, he joined Andrew at the railing. "Castiel, my First Mate, says that you are something called a werewolf," he ventured carefully. "Assuming a monstrous shape by the light of the full moon every month."

"I have heard it called that," Andrew agreed. "Lycanthrope, shapeshifter, werwulf, whelp of Lycaon, these are other names, along with descriptions in other languages." He smiled. "And I am not unique; this lunar curse is the secret of the _She-Wolf_ , for the tall tales have truth in them: the captain is a monster, as you see I am, and is the one who passed the curse to me. She is crewed by other monsters, some as I am, and some not; knowing what you will face, are you still so keen to seek her?"

"So long as that was the last known contact with my brother, yes," Dean replied firmly, cutting a manly figure in the growing light. "It is to that purpose that I have brought you aboard my vessel."

He explained the deal with Rowena, keeping himself still but in readiness to brandish a weapon if the older man became combative. To his surprise, Andrew smiled. "You are determined indeed, Captain Winchester," he laughed, "Knowing what I am, and yet willing to keep me aboard – are you not concerned that your crew will toss me overboard?"

"They need not know," Dean told him, "For only Castiel and Charlie know of your lupine nature. Besides," he shrugged, "I will not countenance it. I need you, to find my brother."

"You need me to find anything," Andrew humphed in amusement, "For I did peruse your charts and navigation logs early this morn, and marvel that you have not discovered the great southern continent that scholars tell us must exist, to balance the globe of the world."

Dean shot him a resentful yet smouldering glare, one of the looks that could promise mayhem in combat or in the bedroom, depending on the context. "Then that shall be our story," he decided, "I have engaged your services as Master for your navigation and piloting skills, a likely reason, since we lost ours to a sickness on our last voyage." He turned to face the older man. "I am sorry that I have been reduced to deceitful methods, but I am not sorry that you are here, if you are what I need to find my brother. But if you are willing to serve as Master, I will pay you a fair sum for your efforts."

"I will accept a usual rate, plus one and a half shares of any prizes the _Impala_ may take," Andrew replied, "But I have two other conditions, if I am to assist you freely and willingly."

"Name them," said Dean promptly. "I can and will pay what you demand, for our last voyage was most successful and the strong room is well stocked; coin, jewels, name your price."

"I have no interest in your takings, Captain," Andrew chuckled. "Firstly, I would like an introduction to… Charlie, was it? I feel I owe your cabin… boy an apology, an explanation, and an assurance that I will do nothing to his detriment."

"Of course," agreed Dean, "Though it will be a shame to interrupt his language lesson. Charlie!"

The call for the cabin boy to attend the captain went the length of the ship; the parrot arrived first, fluttering to land on Dean's shoulder before Charlie arrived. "So, Crowley, are you making progress? Hello, hello! Go on, greet our new Master politely. Hello, hello!"

"Hello, sailor," clucked the parrot, cocking a beady eye at Andrew.

No, be polite," insisted Dean. "Hello, hello!"

"Hello, sailor," repeated the parrot.

"I served on a vessel once where an African Grey attended the captain," mused Andrew. "She could recite the Hail Mary."

"He claims you are intelligent," Dean told the green parrot as it bobbed on his shoulder. "I should pay good coin to any man who could teach you to recite the Ave Maria. I shall mention it to Charlie. Ah, Charlie!" the cabin boy arrived, slightly out of breath, and not looking quite as green as the parrot "Do you know your Ave Maria, boy?"

"Of course, Captain," Charlie looked nonplussed. " _Ave Maria, gratia plena, benedicta et tu in mulieribus…_ "

"Excellent!" Dean said. "I would like you to attempt to teach Crowley to recite it. Even the first line would do. If you succeed, there will be gold for your efforts. Will you undertake this mission?"

"Aye Captain!" chirped Charlie. "I shall begin right away!" The boy wrangled the bird onto his own shoulder. " _Ave Maria_ , say it, Crowley, _Ave Maria, Ave Maria…"_

" 'Ave a madeira," chattered Crowley, fluffing his feathers irritably.

"You are a most ridiculous creature," grumbled Dean at the parrot. "Can you not even say something that a parrot should say? Crowley want a cracker! Go on, Crowley want a cracker! Crowley want a cracker!"

"You eat the damned cracker," muttered the bird.

Dean sighed deeply. "You have your work cut out, Charlie," he said with resignation, "Although I suppose it is an improvement on outright abuse. But persevere. Meanwhile, this is Andrew, our new Master, and I expect you to show him the deference due his position."

"Morning, Master," Charlie touched his cap respectfully, "Did you come aboard yesterday?"

"Good morning, young _man_ ," Andrew replied with an amused smile that made Charlie gawp at him for some reason that Dean could not fathom, "Yes, I did. And I hope that your head is not too fuzzy this morning, for with your captain's help, I should like to speak to you about my arrival."

"Charlie, there is some explaining to," Dean cut in, "For which I think we should retire to my cabin. And breakfast. We are well provisioned," he told Andrew, "There will be bacon, and pie."

"That is as well," chuckled Andrew, "For by my… nature, I am a big eater, and for preference a carnivore."

"I shall speak to George the cook for you," Dean told him, "But I caution you: do not be fooled by the name, she is a woman, and not to be trifled with. Do not attempt to trespass in the galley in search of a snack, for she guards her domain with an iron fist inside an oven glove – many aboard this vessel have felt her wrath, manifest as a spatula alongside the ear; I am Captain, and yet I can list occasions on which I have felt her wooden spoon applied smartly across my backside…"

As they headed back towards Dean's cabin, he continued, "You said you had two demands. Introduction to Charlie was one. what is the other?"

Andrew gave Dean a snarling smile that was, there was no other way to describe it, wolfish.

"When we find the _She-Wolf_ , give me her captain."

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Early daylight hit Sam's face, and he screwed his eyes tightly shut; he felt terrible, sore all over, and was not at all in a hurry to greet the day. However, as the sun rose, it became apparent that the day was going to greet him whether he liked it or not, and so eventually he groaned, and opened his eyes.

There was a strange sense of déjà vu as he carefully let his read roll sideways, and took in his surroundings. He was in a bunk, in a cabin, and a woman sat at the small table, bent over something upon which she worked intently. And… with a resigned sigh, he realised that he was, once more, très déshabillé.

"Are you in pain, Lieutenant?" asked an unfamiliar voice in a concerned tone. Beside the bunk sat a young woman with a worried expression, paused in the act of dabbing gently at the bloodied bruise on one of his shoulders. "I am sorry, but your wounds must be tended. Doctor McGregor's orders. And the Captain's, too."

Sam squinted suspiciously at her as she rinsed out her cloth, and began dabbing again. "Are you one of those wolf creatures?" he demanded.

"Not I," replied the young woman with a laugh, "I am Leeliz, assistant to Doctor McGregor. Please try to hold still," she said firmly, brushing away his other hand as Sam tried to clutch the sheet around himself, "I have had training, and am completely professional, able to cater to all your sponging needs."

"Is that you, Captain?" he asked, squinting at the figure at the table.

"I marvel that you are so keen to face the captain again," replied the figure, turning so that he could see it was not. The second unfamiliar woman grinned at him. "I am MarieLee, and I am working to provide you with trousers, seeing as you seem to place great importance on them."

"For now," chuckled Leeliz.

The older woman who named herself as MarieLee held up the garment she was working on, and Sam peered at the trousers. "They are not the trousers that the captain sewed for me."

"They are not," confirmed MarieLee, bending back to her work, "For those were rendered completely shredded."

Sam looked confused. "I remember… I remember tearing my trousers," he said slowly, "But I do not recall how that came to happen. Only that I was appalled at my own bad manners…"

"The Old Woman will explain all," Leeliz told him soothingly, wiping his brow with her cloth. "And she will be very understanding about your trousers."

"Perhaps I should try them on, for fit," suggested Sam. "Alone," he added. "Then inform you of any adjustments that are required."

"That will not be necessary," MarieLee smiled, "For I measured you while you were asleep."

"I helped," chirped Leeliz. "Your inside leg is most impressive…"

Sam clutched at the sheet and let out a small shriek. "Are all the women aboard this vessel so bold?" he yapped irritably. "What is this ship, a den of harpies?"

"Oh, we have no harpies," MarieLee grinned, "But she," she jerked a thumb at Leeliz, "Is a Siren, so I suggest you don't let her sing you a lullaby, or she may have you doing more than just sleep in your bunk…"

"Is he awake?" The creature named Becky came scurrying into the cabin, and stood smiling at Sam, who let out another shriek. "Oh, good, the captain wishes to speak to him…" she continued to stand, smiling, fingers twitching. "If you need any help with the sponging, Leeliz, I can always…"

With a face like thunder, Leeliz put down her bowl and cloth, strode over to where Becky stood grinning, grabbed the other woman's arm, and dragged her out of the cabin. A few moments later, as Ronnie Shepherd – fully clothed, Sam noted with a small sigh of relief – ducked into the cabin, there was squawk and a splash.

"Captain Shepherd," said Sam anxiously, "Did I just hear somebody fall overboard?"

"It was just Becky," Ronnie told him off-handedly. "Alas, somebody will do her the charity of fishing her out. But I am here to speak to you, belatedly to give you the explanation you deserve."

"And not before time," Sam sounded peevish, even to himself, "For I have experienced the most peculiar hallucinations, and woken once more in a state of unseemly undress, and covered in bruises to boot!" He frowned. "In addition, I believe I may have been measured in an inappropriate fashion by women of forward character…"

"I shall tell you all," the Captain assured him, picking up a jug and pouring him a mug of what his nose told him was the delicious brew called houndswort, "If you will promise to hear me out without interrupting, for what I will tell you will be at least as strange as what you have already seen aboard the _She-Wolf_." She handed him the mug, and seated herself beside his bunk. "So, Lieutenant, as a man of the sea, you have sailed to many places, visited many countries, and heard many strange tales from faraway lands. Tell me, have you ever heard the legend of the werewolf?"

* * *

I suppose at least Sam will get his explanation. One wonders just how many pairs of trousers he's going to lose before this tale is done. No matter, I'm sure that the women of forward character will be there ready to wield the tape measure. Send reviews, and maybe I can use them like a trail of breadcrumbs to get away from Real Life! The more reviews I get, the more frequently Becky will be thrown overboard!


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Sam sat up gingerly, drinking his houndswort, but soon found himself stunned as he listened to the tale that Captain Shepherd unfolded for him: she had been attacked as a girl in the cold lands north of the Low Countries, becoming one of the werewolves she now spoke of, then leaving her father's vessel when a man of the Church named her accursed and insisted that she should be burned for a witch, making her own way in the world, commanding a vessel that had become something of a seagoing sanctuary for those in a similar condition, or those who would not find acceptance anywhere else.

"Some of the crew, I have myself bitten and turned," she went on, "When it was the only way to save their lives. As I did for the young Frenchman you rescued. And," she leaned in, staring at him sternly, "As I did for you."

Sam's mouth opened and shut once, twice, but no sound came out.

"You are a werewolf, a shape-shifter," Ronnie stated firmly. "But you are alive, and that is what is important. This transformation may be undone at the next full moon, if you so wish it. Lieutenant, you are alive! If nothing else, concentrate on that."

Sam dropped his eyes, and stared at his hands. "And… yesterday?"

A smile found its way onto the scarred face. "I am sorry for that," Ronnie said gently, "For you underwent your first transformation, your shapeshift, under most vexing circumstances. Had there been time for me to explain your situation to you, and to assist you, be present with you, during your first change, things may have been different. But you were not to know."

Sam's brow furrowed; Leeliz dabbed at in on general principles. "I remember… you changed," he said slowly, "You… shifted, did you call it? You shifted, and, and," he looked up, indignant, "You attacked that poor lad!"

"I did not attack him," Ronnie corrected firmly, "I bit him, yes, for that is the way the condition is transmitted. Werewolves have a stronger physical constitution than do men; that, combined with the skill of Doctor McGregor, saved him. He is as alive as you, although," she positively grinned, "Somewhat less… feisty than yourself, perhaps. Gabriel is explaining this to him as we speak, in my cabin; I'm afraid my French is not very good…"

"I think 'execrable' describes it," announced Doctor McGregor, stepping into the cabin. "Although when asking for chocolate, cake or rare meat, you become suddenly quite amazingly fluent…"

"Yes, yes," Ronnie snapped shortly, "Your opinion of my grasp of the Romance languages is well known, Doctor, I do thank you so very much."

Sam looked down at his battered body. "What happened to me?" he demanded. "I do not remember. If I changed, if I 'shifted' to become one of these monsters…"

"Not monsters," Ronnie cut him off, "At least, none aboard the _She-Wolf_ are monsters. Including yourself. What happened to you?" She gave him the keen stare that made him feel all of about five years old again. "I happened to you." The smile reasserted itself. "You thought I was about to maul that poor boy, and you sprang to his defence. On four legs."

Sam looked horrified at the thought that he might have attacked a woman, even if she was a giant wolf-creature at the time, and even worse, he burst out of his trousers in doing so, meaning that he had technically tried to attack a woman in a state of unseemly trouserlessness.

Ronnie laughed as if reading his thoughts. "Oh, do not be concerned," she chuckled, "Though I be short for a werewolf, aye, even for a female, which are most usually smaller than the males, I compensate most amply by being nastier, sneakier, and just more vicious. You did not lay a claw on me. Although," her face became rueful, "I was most unfortunately driven to cuff you about somewhat, as you were entirely persistent in your desire to 'save' the boy from my perceived predations. Know that I am Alpha aboard this vessel, and I will be obeyed." She leaned in, and patted his leg gently. "But you will heal quickly; Doctor McGregor prepares a salve that is most effective for the healing of weals and bruises, and you will find that Leeliz has a deft hand when it comes to applying that salve wherever it is needed…"

"Perhaps I should help," suggested MarieLee, holding up the trousers she had apparently completed, "After all, there is so much of Lieutenant Winchester, it will take a lot of salve."

"And a lot of applying," nodded Leeliz.

Sam clutched the sheet around himself with a small squawk.

"You will feel better when you have had something to eat," pronounced Doctor McGregor, "Ranger has ordered the slaughter of a beast this morning, as there are many hungry mouths, some wounded, that will feel better for good feeding with fresh meat. I have asked her to prepare you a fortifying breakfast."

"Who is Ranger?" asked Sam, still clutching the sheet as Leeliz picked up a glass jar of ointment and eyed it thoughtfully.

"The cook," replied Ronnie, "She keeps us all well fed, but I warn you, do not be fooled by her appearance: she has spent time in the East, and learned their ways of combat, and can stun an opponent into submission with a cunningly wielded skillet. She will tolerate no trespass upon her galley, and will not hesitate to swat even a wolf as large as yourself upon the rear with a rolled-up pamphlet." With another reassuring pat, she left the cabin.

"Aye, and smile while she does it," added MarieLee, proffering the trousers. Sam grabbed at them with mumbled thanks.

"Do you need help to dress, Lieutenant? asked Leeliz solicitously. "You are quite bruised. I am happy to assist you."

"After the ointment," prompted MarieLee.

"Yes, of course," agreed Leeliz, "After the ointment, which must be applied diligently, extensively and perhaps even enthusiastically."

Just as Sam was wondering how he could get into his new trousers without risking being assailed by women wielding salve, a third woman in a most unusual costume that was almost entirely pink sprang into the cabin, putting down a tray from which delicious scents emanated.

"Hai-ya! Breakfast is served. Oh." Beneath her strange mask, her mouth smiled. "Is it time for the ointment yet?"

Leeliz and MarieLee nodded happily.

"Uh, Doctor," Sam began, "Is this, that is to say, is it really proper?"

"Oh, yes," Doctor McGregor reassured him, "My salve contains arnica and comfrey, and a number of other ingredients that make it most effective."

"No, no, no!" yipped Sam, "I mean," he gestured at the three smiling women. "If I am to be, er, that is to say, have my wounds treated, should it not be done by a properly qualified person?"

"Oh, you wouldn't want me doing it, lad," the doctor told him. "Not with my hands. Terribly cold. I get complaints all the time. Lack of circulation, you see."

"Will you at least act as chaperone?" Sam pressed.

"That will not be necessary," Doctor McGregor smiled, "For I have no doubt at all that you are a man of integrity and honourable conduct, and these ladies are in absolutely no danger of having their virtue impugned by you."

"That is not what I meant!" Sam practically wailed.

"Besides, truly I am exhausted," sighed the Doctor. "I am older than I look, Lieutenant, and having been most busy for several watches now, I must sleep." He kicked his boots off and removed his coat, then sat on the other bunk in the cabin.

"Doctor, how can you possibly sleep when they," he indicated the women, "Are intent on, yes, well…"

"Oh, quite easily," the doctor grinned. "I am a heavy sleeper, and by inclination a night owl. During daylight hours, I can sleep practically anywhere." With that, he yawned hugely, showing a mouthful of sharp fangs, then lay down, pulling a blanket over himself.

"Good grief, what manner of creature is your doctor?" yelped Sam.

"Oh, Doctor McGregor is a vampire," the cook Ranger told him, "But he does not feed on humans. Indeed, he is most generous in his assistance when it is necessary to bleed out a carcass after slaughter. Now, let us attend to your wounds, Lieutenant."

"Indeed," noted MarieLee, "There is some particularly deep bruising upon his glutei maximi that I noticed whilst preparing to sew his trousers."

"Yeep!" went Sam.

There was the sound of footsteps approaching, and Sam wondered if it was the captain returning to rescue him.

It was not.

"Oh, goodness," cried Becky, squelching slightly, "Did somebody say it was time for the ointment?"

"Don't start without me," instructed MarieLee, grabbing Becky's arm and dragging her out of the cabin.

There was a distant splash as Leeliz opened the jar.

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"And that is how I came to be as I am," Andrew finished his explanation to Charlie, who eyed him warily. "But I assure you, Charlie, _lad_ , I mean you no harm, and will do you no harm." He gave Charlie another one of those meaningful stares. "I do not wish to make trouble for you, or give you any concern to worry. About _anything._ Do you understand?"

"It is probably most prudent that the crew does not become generally informed about the new Master's condition," stated Dean. "It is important that it be kept secret."

"That would be the wise course," agreed Castiel, helping himself to more of the strong black brew derived from a most profitable raid on a Spaniard carrying a cargo of coffee beans.

"I agree," nodded Andrew. "I am good at keeping secrets. And I'm sure that Charlie is also good at keeping secrets when the need is pressing, is that not so, _boy_? Do we understand each other?"

Charlie offered the Master a small smile. "I believe we do, sir," he replied.

"Capital!" declared Dean, nostrils flaring. "Ah, I do believe that I detect the approach of breakfast!"

The cook, George, brought a covered tray that smelled of delicious breakfast type foodstuffs. Given Dean and Castiel's propensity to eat a lot of red meat, she was not at all suspicious when informed that the new Master was also keenly appreciative of large chunks of dead animal.

"So, to business," said Dean, eyeing the contents of the large tray and standing up to reach for a chunk of bread, "In order to set a course for ouurrrrrOW!"

He let out a yelp as George smacked him smartly on the backside with a wooden spoon that she kept about her person at all times for chastising the Captain whenever his manners were less than acceptable.

"I don't care," she growled before he could protest that as Captain he was the only one who should be responsible for deciding when corporal punishment was to be doled out, "You will conduct yourself in a civilised fashion, or I shall put you across my knee and there will be no breakfast for you!"

"Ooooh," protested Dean, "She's like a dictatorial person from Austria or Bavaria – no breakfast for you! Eeeeeep!" He let out another small yip when he received a second smack for giving cheek. Subsiding, let he be rendered buttock-sore to the point of not being able to sit down, he sat down again, letting her dish up the food in a way she deemed appropriate.

"You never learn," observed Castiel. "One might start to believe that you enjoy being smacked by a woman with an authoritative air. Besides Mistress Amanda, the hoyden purveyor of negotiable affection at the den of iniquity that you like to frequent in London…"

"What a sailor she would make," Dean sighed happily, "For she is a woman who knows her way around rope…"

"A _hem_ ," tutted Castiel pointedly, nodding towards Charlie.

"Do not be such a Puritan, you Puritan," grumbled Dean, clapping Charlie on the shoulder, "For when next we return to London, I am resolved to introduce Charlie here to the mysteries of women, and the _Nevada_ is the perfect place to start. Do not fear," he smiled as Charlie's eyes bugged, "It will make a man of you, lad, it will put hair on your chest and a spring in your step."

"But no doubt it will be some time before we return to London," Andrew cut in firmly, "Now, tell me how it is you intend to find your brother, and where I fit into this cunning plan of yours."

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The sun was well up in the sky by the time Sam emerged, fed and salved and looking what would in later centuries come to be described as 'shell shocked', although in this case would be more accurately termed 'salve shocked', from the Doctor's cabin. His new trousers fit him well, and MarieLee had promised to make him a shirt as soon as she could, although she didn't seem to be in any hurry to start work on it. Still, shirtless he cut a most aesthetically pleasing figure completely appropriate to the narrative context as he made his way onto the deck, moving a little gingerly due to the bruising and the salving.

Three wolves were heaving at a block and tackle, raising something from below deck, whilst a man berated them in a patois reminiscent of the language he'd heard spoken on some islands, with some French and some English and some completely incomprehensible sounds. Sam eventually recognised the damaged cannon he'd secured as it came into view and was carefully swung free and deposited on the deck. It landed on its damaged carriage with more of a jolt than the supervisor wanted, for he burst into a torrent of what was clearly upbraiding, cuffing the wolves then leaning down to speak tenderly to the gun.

"Ah, you are up!" Sam turned to see Gabriel watching the process too. "You will find that you will heal more quickly than you might have expected before."

"From my physical wounds, perhaps," mused Sam, "But from the experience of being salved, my word, that was something I will not forget in a hurry – they were most astonishingly… thorough." He nodded towards the commotion. "Who is that who smacks werewolves around like badly behaved children?"

"Oh, someone who came aboard somewhere in the New World," Gabriel told him, "We call him l'Orleano Azul. He is the wrangler of the guns aboard; he dotes upon them as though they were his children."

"Indeed," mused Sam, watching the man waving his hands and shouting at Douglas the carpenter, "Where did he acquire such skills?"

"We have no idea," Gabriel shrugged, "Because nobody can understand a word he says, but he seems to understand us and is good at his task, and so the Captain values him."

Douglas also waved his arms around, then turned and pointed at Sam, gesturing tying a knot. With a cry of joy, l'Orleano approached them and embraced Sam, chattering in his strange tongue, apparently thanking Sam for rescuing one of his charges.

"Oh, er, you are entirely welcome," Sam stuttered. The man gave him a wide grin, then returned to shouting at Douglas, who took out his measure and began to assess the damage to the gun carriage as l'Orleano gave incomprehensible instructions. "Er, do you have any idea what he's saying?"

"None whatsoever," replied Gabriel serenely, "But he appears to have decided that you are a satisfactory addition to the crew."

"I do not intend to stay," Sam said quickly, "If I am truly not a prisoner, as I have been informed, then I will wish to return to London as soon as I may, after this werewolf curse has been lifted from me." He paused. "Certainly, as soon as news of my vessel's loss finds its way back to Naval House, my brother will be consumed with worry for me."

"Well, you have plenty of time to think about it, until the next full moon, certainly," Gabriel commented equably. "Many whom we pluck from doom's fangs choose to stay aboard."

"I'm not sure if I could do that," Sam said doubtfully, "For a start, I seem to go through far more pairs of trousers than is seemly, and then there is…"

"There you are!" a happy voice chirped behind them, and they turned to see Becky, still damp, beaming at Sam. "What a shame the ointmenting had to go ahead without me, but now you're up and about perhaps we can get to know each other better – could I get a look at that tattoo, do you think, that one there, the one that disappears down your…"

" _Scuzi, grande_ ," said l'Orleano, smiling widely as he gently shouldered past Sam to get to Becky, take hold of her arm, then firmly usher her to the gunwales.

There was a splash as, dusting his hands off and smiling at a job well done, he returned to tend to the damaged cannon.

* * *

I'm detecting a theme here - Dirty Miranda appears to like Becky about as much as the Denizens. So, what happens now? Anybody else want to be a crew member? Will Sam fall right into life on the She-Wolf, or will he be a rebellious pup, who earns a spanking or a flogging, and needs tending again? Just how much of that ointment does Doctor McG have stashed away? Will Dean's clothes stay dry? Will Dean's clothes stay on? Is there a bar fight somewhere? Send reviews, and see what D.M. makes of them!


	11. Chapter 11

Well, shiver me timbers and batten down me hatches, look who popped out of the rigging – it's Dirty Miranda, the piratical plot bunny dictating Dean's pirate adventure! I have no idea what she got up to over the Christmas break; possibly, she was slouching about playing cards with Jackie-Joy. Lazy leporids.

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

After breakfast, during which George the cook smacked Dean extensively with her wooden spoon ostensibly for bad manners but really so that she could fantasise about his rosy red ass, Dean headed to his sea chest, and removed a small item.

"This is what was given to me by the witch Rowena…"

"Bollocks! Bollocks! Bollocks!"

"Shut up, Crowley." He unwrapped the thing to reveal a small wooden box, and opened it on the chart table.

"It appears to be a compass of some sort," commented Castiel, cocking his head, "Although free of any markings."

"That is not unheard of," Andrew remarked, "A compass points north, due to the magnetic nature of the needle. All that is required is a magnetised indicator, and a protractor to measure degrees, and it is perfectly serviceable for navigation…"

As they watched, the compass spun erratically.

"…Unless it does that." He gave Dean a level stare. "Captain Winchester, if this is the compass you have been using, then I am not surprised that your navigation would earn a first voyage midshipman a dressing down."

"No, that's just Dean," Bobby supplied, reaching for another less ornate box. "This is the navigation compass." The needle on the conventional compass held steadfastly to north.

Dean smiled. "Sam gave me this when I took command of the _Impala_ ," he said, "Along with those tables. And an imprecation to learn to use them properly."

The Quartermaster cocked his head as they all contemplated the strange occult artefact. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't you already have a 'compass' that does this?"

"Oh, that," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "It's still just as useless as the day I won it from that painted idiot, what was his name, Jake Narrow, Jeff Swallow – a good enough player at cards, but a complete shyster, and a terrible loser with a glass jaw to boot. I believe I still have it somewhere…" he went back to ratting through his sea chest. "Here it is."

"Still, at least this one has a use," Charlie said, as they watched the two strange compasses spin randomly.

"If you wished to navigate your way to Limbo, perhaps," chuckled Andrew, watching the erratic devices.

"Oh, we found out by happenstance that wherever I am, this one points to the _Impala_ ," Dean told him, "So it is useful if I should become disoriented ashore."

"You could try drinking less," murmured Castiel.

"And you could try being less of a Puritan…"

"Wanker!"

"Don't use the p-word out loud near that critter," complained Bobby, wincing.

Dean continued easily, "So, the compass from Rowena…"

"LUCIFER'S BUM!"

"Shut up, Crowley, the compass supplied by the witch will, she claims, work so long as I have something with a connection to Sam, and a connection to the _She-Wolf_. And that is where you, Master, come in." He handed over the amulet necklace given to him by his brother, incidentally having to undo his shirt and thus exposing tanned skin. "If you have this, perhaps it will work for you."

Taking the amulet in one hand, Andrew placed his other hand on Rowena's compass, and they waited.

The needle continued to spin, but then slowed, swung back and forth, and then…

"Well, it sure aint pointin' north," Bobby observed, watching the ship's compass.

"But it is pointing," Dean noted, with a purposeful expression that made men about to fight him worried and women about to be bedded by him gleefully anticipatory, "Aye, it's giving us a heading."

Andrew consulted a set of navigation tables, then the ship's compass. "I will need to take midday sightings," he announced, "But if this strange object is indeed indicating the location of the _She-Wolf_ , then I can set the _Impala_ on an appropriate course to take more readings."

"I am not interested in taking readings, man," snapped Dean, "We are not at sea to take readings! If I wished to observe the Heavens, I would beg leave to present my credentials at Greenwich!"

"If your logs are anything to go by, they would surely find you a position swabbing the floors," Andrew noted serenely. "My word, Captain, the way you are staring at me, I be not sure if you want to tear off my head, or tear off my trousers…"

"If we could just return to the matter most pressingly at hand," cut in Castiel before Dean could commit mayhem, for Captain Winchester did not take kindly to any inference that he was not the most manly sort of manly man, and interested in manly things in a manly way, with total manliness, such as women, and not at all interested in the use of the exceptionally discreet rooms made available at The Nevada for Mistress Amanda's more select clientele, even if he had been approached by some of those clients who appreciated his handsome features and fine firm form, and several of the ladies who traded in negotiable affection there swore that should he ever take up such an offer they would cheerfully beat each other to death in order to gain access to the small holes in the wall that could afford the most interesting viewing. "I believe that the Captain would prefer for you to set a course in pursuit of the _She-Wolf_ immediately, right away, and _toute de suite_."

"The tooter the sweeter," scowled Dean.

"I can do that, if you so order it, Captain," Andrew replied, "If a chase is your preference. But I warn you, the _She-Wolf_ is fast…"

"She cannot outrun the Impala," declared Dean.

"Possibly not, but she will try," Andrew continued. "And she has had much practice at evading pursuit, for that is what ships that challenge her always do. However, if I can take the time to get a number of fixtures, I believe that I can triangulate to identify her position, and plot her likely course…"

Dean's smile showed that he was following his new Master's train of thought. "You don't just want to run her down," he grinned, "You want to find her."

"It would be a more efficient strategy," Castiel conceded.

"A wolf is an ambush predator, Captain," Andrew's returned grin was positively, well, wolfish, "She does not know that you are in pursuit. And Captain Shepherd will not expect a human to think like a wolf."

"You really think you can pull that off?" asked Bobby.

"But… how?" asked Charlie.

"In the end, all navigation is merely a matter of geometry," Andrew stated firmly, shuffling through the disorganised sea charts, and tutting at the abused state of the slide rule, "Which is all a matter of mathematics." He smiled down at the cabin boy. "Would you like me to show you?"

"Oh, yes please, sir!" chirped Charlie in his strangely high voice. "May I, Captain?"

"Of course, Charlie," Dean smiled at the lad's enthusiasm, "It would be a most useful skill for a young man making a life for himself at sea." Crowley fluttered from his perch to land on Charlie's head. "And you can continue with Crowley's training while you are here, mayhap to teach him to say something nautical, and less offensive." Dean stared at the parrot. "What about, 'Land ho!' That is short and simple. Try it, Crowley, land ho! Land ho! Land ho!"

"Stupid hoe," muttered the bird, turning his back on Dean. "Stupid hoe."

"Perhaps something with a bit more dash," suggested Bobby. "Hoist the colours! Hoist the colours! Hoist the colours!"

The parrot fluttered to Bobby's shoulder and rubbed his face tenderly on the Quartermaster's ear. "Darling, darling," Crowley crooned, before turning to Dean, eyeing him with a beady parroty eye and pronouncing "Hoist yer trousers. Stupid hoe. You eat the damned cracker."

"I wonder if he could be taught to say 'Baste me with saffron and roast me whole in my own feathers'," mused Dean.

"Wanker!" protested Crowley.

"Shorter phrases will be more readily learned," Castiel pointed out, "Drop anchor, perhaps…"

"Drop yer rompers," said Crowley.

"…Or maybe 'All hands on deck!'…"

"All hands on dicks!" supplied Crowley.

"…Or even 'Cast off'…"

"Piss off," muttered the bird.

"Very well," Andrew pronounced, "If the Captain would be so kind as to allow us some more of that excellent coffee, we shall make a start, both the navigation and the vocabulary lessons. Are you familiar with an instrument called a sextant, Charlie?"

"Sex it! Sex it! Hello, sailor. Sex it!"

"What about great circles?"

"Great arse. Great arse. Drop yer rompers. Stupid hoe."

"Well, that is where we shall start…"

The senior crew left their new Master and the cabin boy to the charts and the obscenity-obsessed parrot, and headed for the foredeck, where the man at the wheel touched his cap and relinquished the ship to Dean.

"So, you have the wherewithal to find the _She-Wolf_ ," Castiel began, as Dean peered distractedly at the ship's compass, "What will you do with this intelligence?"

"The plan is simple," replied Dean as the breeze ruffled his shirt open in a way that any women watching would find most pleasing, "We find her, we rescue Sam, we kill the captain, then we sink her."

"Uh, that's a plan that's gonna need a few more details filled in," stated Bobby. "I know you're worried about your brother, but you need to use your head for this."

"I am consumed with worry about him," Dean confided to the only two people to whom he'd ever make such an admission. "Every moment that my brother is aboard that vessel, I fear for him. What terrible fate has befallen him? Has he been taken prisoner by that barbaric monster of a she-captain, to be kept like a brothel servant, chained to her bed with nothing but the most revealingly clinging pair of trousers for modesty, to be used by her for her lustful amusement whenever she pleases, or tied and displayed at the mast and flogged for her depraved enjoyment, or maybe shoved into a very small box for easy and convenient under-bunk storage when he is not in use, or is he to be sold into slavery, shackled and paraded naked to be prodded and probed by those who would test his flesh before purchase and bearing him off to some hideous fate where he becomes the plaything of some monstrous matron or over-indulged spoiled New World society lady who will require him to perform as if he was a prized bloodstock stallion, showing him off to all her friends, or leading him on a leash like a well-bred Greyhound wearing a collar studded with gems that match his eyes…"

"Now, don't you go catastrophisin', boy," instructed Bobby, grateful that the advent of the internet was centuries away and that he would never hear the squeeing of fangirls swooning over Dean's somewhat disturbingly evocative monologue, "Leastways, not until we know for sure that there is something worth catastrophisin' about."

"Let us allow the new Master to take his readings, and formulate his calculations," Castiel suggested. "If he is able to achieve his end, we will appraise ourselves of the _She-Wolf's_ movements, and formulate a more detailed plan accordingly." He gave Dean his End Of The World Stare Of Doom. "We should not act so rashly than anyone suffers avoidable injury in the encounter."

"You are probably correct. As usual," Dean conceded, "Oh, but I hate the waiting!"

"At least Charlie seems keen to be schooled in navigation," grinned Bobby. "Never did see the attraction of numbers myself, that high-faluting 'geometry' thing, give me an old-fashioned reliable rutter anytime…"

"Rutter! Rutter!" The squawking call came from above as Crowley appeared, circled briefly overhead, and left a defecatory deposit on the compass. "Rutter! Drop yer rompers!"

"There are days," muttered Dean, wiping off the glass, "There are days when I am prepared to believe that bird is possessed."

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Sam stood on the foredeck, fidgeting. He was able to sit still for long periods of time when he was reading or studying, but it irked him to be idle whilst the rest of the crew busied themselves around him with the sorts of repairs that were always necessary aboard a ship that had seen action. He tried slinking away to see if he could be of assistance to Douglas the carpenter, or maybe even L'Orleano, but both of them sent him on his way in languages he didn't understand, and finally he was firmly rebuked by Tsweetie, First Mate of the She-Wolf.

"The Captain has ordered that you do nothing strenuous," he was told in no uncertain terms, "You have been wounded, and you are to channel your energies into your recovery."

"But I cannot be idle whilst all those around me work!" he protested, "I am not some sultan to stand around, watching others labour – it is not right that I should take my ease whilst others do not! It is not right that I should swan about, being purely ornamental!"

"It isn't so bad," commented Leeliz as she headed past with a basket of what looked like washing in her arms, "I think you are wonderfully ornamental, the way the sunlight and the sea spray play on the taut, tanned skin overlaying your work-sculpted muscle, making you look like a rendition of Adonis, only quite unfortunately overclothed. Would you like me to wash your trousers, Lieutenant?"

"No, thank you, madam," Sam clutched at his trousers; being the only garment he had, he was not keen to part with them. MarieLee had claimed to be working on a shirt for him, but she seemed to be taking her time. "Please, Miss Tsweetie, there must be something I am permitted to do…"

"Chafing at being confined to quarters, Lieutenant?" asked a wry voice behind him. He turned to see the Captain in a state of, as he had taken to referring to it, extreme deshabille, and averted his eyes.

"I am not workshy, Captain," he muttered, his cheeks flushing adorably, "And have turned my hand to near every occupation and task that might be found aboard ship, having grown up on my father's vessel and been introduced to all aspects of keeping a vessel at sea in trim. And truly, I believe I would feel better for some healthful exertion." By way of demonstration, he raised his hands above his head and stretched out his magnificent chest and lats; Leeliz put down her basket and applauded.

"Oh, my goodness!" squealed a voice, "Oh, I can't wait to see him do that again, he looks so firm…"

"I beg your leave, Captain," said First Mate Tsweetie, and the captain dismissed her with a nod. A moment later, there was a squawk and a splash, then the Captain turned back to Sam.

"Indeed?" Captain Shepherd studied him critically. "Did you ever assist the smith?"

"A few times," Sam replied, "It was one of the few places on board that my brother and I were not permitted unaccompanied, it being a specialised task, and dangerous to the unwary. Once large enough to wield the hammer, I assisted with the forging of puddled iron ingots on occasion, but showed no talent for smithing."

"That is no shame, for few do," Ronnie smiled, "The ship's smith could use the assistance of a well-grown man – no wolf has the dexterity for the job – would you like to assist at the forge?"

"I would be pleased to do so, if you would introduce me to him," Sam answered earnestly, "I am untrained, but I am not lazy, and will learn as I may."

"Captial!" she replied, turning and heading for the ladder that would take them below deck. "Come along, then."

"Er, would it not be more appropriate for you to dress, Captain?" Sam hinted in the hope that she would remedy her state of nudity.

The Captain waved him off. "Do not concern yourself, sir," she reassured him, "I wear a smith's apron, and my arms are well accustomed to the occasional spark or two."

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. "You… you are smith aboard this vessel?" he asked incredulously.

"Indeed I am, as you shall see," she smiled, "Now, I cannot wait to see you inaction, so come below and pump my bellows, Lieutenant Winchester."

* * *

All right then, all depraved beldames who would like Lieutenant Sam Winchester to pump their bellows, please to be forming an orderly queue…

Leahelisabeth: Where is the queue to have Sam chained to my bed?

LeeMarieJack: Where is the queue to have Sam chained to Dean's bed?

PinkRangerV: I would like to tear off Sam's trousers!

Tsweeney: I would like to help!

Georgia: I would like to tear off Dean's trousers!

The Driver: I'll be waaaaaaay over there, talking to the artillery.

The Fickriter: I'll bring the tea and biscuits.


	12. Chapter 12

Well, horn me swoggle and splice me mainbrace, Dirty Miranda Flint, the AU Pirate plot bunny, has returned from whatever veggie garden she was pillaging. Maybe since she's really the only bunny passing through the pen, we might get some more out of her.

But, before we go any further, can I just be clear here, regarding the post-script to the last chapter: I am NOT bringing my tea and biscuits to watch the depraved beldames perpetrate dreadfulness, I will be OVER THERE with The Driver. He can explain the difference between a gun and a howitzer, how MRSI works, and will demonstrate correct clearance procedure in case of hangfire, and it will be INTERESTING and EDUCATIONAL and MUCH MORE INTELLECTUALLY UPLIFTING than what you ghastly viragos are planning…

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve**

The Captain led the way below decks to the orlop, where she indicated a number of sacks to him. "Do you think you can manage the coal?"

"You would have me carry coals?" Sam couldn't help himself. "Aye, having borne so many already in the last few very strange days, what will a few more matter?"

Captain Shepherd gave him an exasperated look. "What I meant was, are you able to manage the weight? 'Tis heavy stuff, and I would not have you injure yourself."

"I have carried worse than that for better than you," he humphed, bending to heft a sack to his shoulder, impressive lats flexing as he flicked his magnificent man-mane back from his face, "For neither my father nor His Majesty's Navy ever tolerated fainting flowers when there was work to be done."

"Indeed," she grinned, "Then take that aloft, whilst I fetch my anvil."

Sam eyed the large chunk of metal by which she stood, and spoke carefully. "Captain, you are clearly a woman of great resource and force of mind, but you are nonetheless what God made you, that is, the weaker sex, and it would be remiss and ungentlemanly of me to stand by and watch you injure youself in a doomed attempt toAIEEEEE!"

In the blink of an eye, Ronnie Shepherd was gone, and one of the wolf-creatures stood before him. Panting in amusement, it stooped to take hold of the anvil and heft it easily.

"God's death, madam!" Sam barked, "You startled me near fit to jump!"

The wolf looked thoughtful, then put down its burden and changed shape back to a grinning woman, unashamedly nude, of firm yet womanly physique for the purpose of equal opportunity perving. "We must walk you through your own shapeshift tonight," she declared, "For you will find your lupine form much more suited to such tasks – I have seen you, Lieutenant, and upon four furry legs, you would carry two of those coal sacks and not even notice you were in ballast."

"That is not an aspect of my condition that I wish to explore," Sam said warily.

"You will have little choice tonight, for the full moon will rise once more," Captain Shepherd told him sunnily, "But, God willing, it will be clear sailing, the _She-Wolf_ will be unmolested, and I shall assist you in the transition; mayhap you may begin to gain control of it. Now come, let us see how you fare as a smith's assistant." Resuming her wolf shape once more, she lifted the anvil, and headed back above deck.

The ship's forge was a simple one, a brick furnace with an insulating water reservoir, and as she set the anvil down there was a yipping sound as they were approached by a creature that Sam recognised.

"Why, it's the powder monkey's dog!" he exclaimed.

The animal shook itself vigorously, and suddenly resolved into the shape of a small boy. "I'm nobody's dog, sir," he protested, "I am a member of the crew! Shall I fetch water?" he asked the Captain. "Shall I fetch the hammers? I could help!"

"You can barely lift my tools," the Captain chided the youngster in an amused voice. "And yes, fill the reservoir for me, that will be help enough." At the disappointed look on the child's face, her own expression softened. "You may watch, and thus learn," she instructed him, "But a forge is no place for a child, it is dangerous enough to adults who supposedly know their business."

"I have heard tell that your father set you to the task when you were yourself small," the boy stared up at her fearlessly.

She let out a short growl, her top lip curled. "Such insolence! You will do as you are told, boy, or you will answer for your conduct!"

With barely concealed bad grace, the child tried to hide a sulky humph – the Captain let out a short bark, and he scuttled off to fetch a bucket.

Sam's mouth quirked into a smile. "You learned smithing as a child?"

"I did," she snapped, securing the anvil, "When I was near twice his age, and I would never have talked back to my father for fear of feeling the back of his hand."

"I believe his is just curious," Sam felt compelled to defend the child, for he himself had been upbraided and chastised on many occasions from a very young age when his curiosity about everything led him to be where he was forbidden to go, badger crew and officers with questions, and generally do things that a small boy ought not. "I myself was not much past his age when, in eagerness to watch a smith work, I sought a better vantage point and fell into a tub of brine." He smiled at the memory. "He threatened to nail the lid on, pickle me, and sell me as salted pork."

She stopped dead and looked at him. "Truly? My word. I used to contrive to fall into the brine tub when my mother put me into a dress that I deemed to be especially vexatious, to induce the removal of whatever ghastly garment had been fitted to me." She began preparations for firing the forge. "Should you fall into the tub, I am sure that LeeLiz and MarieLee and Ranger will be keen to help you to remove your wet clothing and sponge away any salt. Very keen on gratuitous sponging, is LeeLiz, I have noticed."

"Uh, I would fain remove any clothing in their presence," Sam's face pinked, "They are most forward creatures."

"Should you become bebrined, it would be prudent to do so," she cautioned him, "For the brine is more salty than seawater, and would give rise to terrible chafing, in which case there would be need of more of Doctor McGregor's capital salve remedy..."

Sam shuddered, determined not to do anything that might result in him falling into the enthusiastic clutches of those monstrous madams who seemed bent on tending to him, whether he wanted it or not – he resolved to steer a careful path between the Scylla of sponging and the Charybdis of salving.

It took some time for the fire to come to temperature, during which Sam had nothing much to do except work the bellows and become more sweaty as the heat increased and stand around looking casually and impressively shirtless and buff. He used the time to speak to the captain about his fate.

"What will happen to me?" he asked. "Not the shapeshift, I mean, as a… Gabriel said I am not a prisoner…"

"Indeed you are not," she agreed, "When next we put in to port, you are free to leave if that is your desire, or sail on with us, should our next voyage take us closer to your eventual preferred destination."

"My desire is to return home," he told her, "To inform the Navy that I am alive, and my brother too, for he and his crew will be most anxious, once news of the _Stanford_ 's fate reaches him."

There were small noises of disappointment; Sam whipped around, to discover that he had an audience.

"Don't mind us," said LeeLiz, "We are just keen to see you in work at the forge. I wager your hammer action is worth seeing."

"That is what she said," grinned MarieLee. "Do not mind us, I shall just sit here and admire your prowess whilst I work on your shirt. Or not, if the scenery is too distracting."

"Are you really planning to leave the _She-Wolf_?" asked Ranger plaintively.

"Ignore them," suggested Captain Shepherd, "For they will do no harm, and will keep Becky at bay if necessary."

"We shall also be on hand immediately to provide assistance, should you fall into the brine tub," nodded Ranger, "Forsooth, we would fish you out quick smart, so quickly that your trousers will hardly have time to become adequately saturated to cling revealingly to your person."

"But we are not preternatural," added MarieLee.

"She is," Ranger indicated LeeLiz, "Forget not, she is a Siren."

"What I mean," MarieLee continued, "Is that, should you fall into the tub, we will of course render all possible assistance immediately, but we will not be able to prevent your trousers from becoming clingingly soaked."

"And indeed, we will prevent Becky from causing you disquiet," nodded LeeLiz, "For her salving is of a rude quality, and should you need any further ointmenting, I shall see to it that she does not get in my way."

Sam felt a sudden urge to clutch his trousers to himself.

"When we dock, you can write to your brother," suggested Ronnie, "For you may use your Navy credentials, and a letter will most efficiently find its way from one officer to another through official channels – it will take months, no doubt, but it will find him more quickly than you yourself are likely to do."

"Oh, he is not an officer of His Majesty," Sam corrected her, "He commands his own vessel, the _Impala_."

The word drew melodramatic gasps from the audience, and a thoughtful expression from Ronnie.

"The _Impala_? Your brother commands the _Impala_?" Her brow furrowed, then she let out a noise of exasperation. "Oh, fie, I am as slow as a galleon in the horse latitudes! When you were fevered, you called for your brother, Dean. He is Dean Winchester, of course."

"You know of him?" asked Sam dubiously.

"Any ship hauling cargo twixt the Continent and the Carribean knows of him," she scowled, "He is a freebooter."

"He is a privateer, holding a Letter of Marque from His Majesty's own hand," Sam shot back, angry at the casual traducement of his big brother.

"He's a damned pirate, is what he is," she growled. "Aye, I know of him, enough to give him a wide berth. She's damned fast, the _Impala_ , and I've run from her – just – on one or two occasions, where, praise God, we saw her before she could spot us. And for that, you may be grateful, for if he'd attempted to take my ship, the crabs would be picking his bones in the deeps long since."

"He is authorised to apprehend the vessels of His Majesty's enemies, madam," Sam retorted hotly, stung by the criticism of and implied threat to his brother, "And legitimately entitled to take their cargoes as prizes! You have no entitlement to be criticising my brother when he is about his lawful seagoing business, nor is there any justification for threatening the _Impala_!"

The Captain's top lip curled. "We have no home port, no nation that this ship may call home," she reminded him in a low rumble, "I've encountered _privateers_ before," she sneered as if the very word tasted nasty, "And since she I does not fly the flag of their own nation, they deem the _She-Wolf_ a juicy prize. Pah, even the Royal Navies of the world are not above a little freebooting when they deem their prey to be an easy meal. You have seen what this vessel can do, Lieutenant, I would be obliged if you would warn off your superiors, _and_ your brother, when you return to civilisation, for make no mistake, I do not start fights, but by thunder I finish them, and should any thieving scupper-dweller attack and attempt to seize my vessel, my home, and my property, I will send them to the bottom, with regret, yes, but I will do it!"

Sam felt himself start to bare his own teeth, and a growl beginning low in his throat, but she let out a sharp snarl. "And you will do well to rein in your temper, because I am Alpha and Captain aboard this ship, and I will not tolerate defiance from a pup who doesn't even have control of his shapeshift, so I suggest you calm yourself and your manner, or I will see you shackled to the main mast and I will wield the lash on your back myself, is that clear?"

Before anything else could transpire, there was a noise that sounded like _Squeeee!_ from the watching women.

"Oh dear," sighed MarieLee, "It appears that LeeLiz has fainted again."

"Do not mind her," suggested Ranger, "It has happened before, strangely enough, when the Captain threatened to spank your pert lily-white ass…"

"Shackled," murmured LeeLiz in her swoon, "Flogging… spanking…"

Sam sat down heavily on the anvil. "Good grief, but I fear this voyage will send me mad," he sighed. "I mean no disrespect, Captain, but I am desperately afeared for the safety of my brother at the best of times." He rolled his shoulders, wincing. "And I feel… twitchy."

"It is the pull of the full moon setting you on edge," Captain Shepherd told him, subsiding, "Those who decide to remain as wolves grow accustomed to it."

"Under stressful circumstances, massage can be of benefit," suggested MarieLee.

LeeLiz suddenly sat up. "Oh, yes, I would be pleased to assist you if that is what you require."

Like a rat from a cesspit, Becky suddenly popped into sight. "Oh, that would be a good idea!" chirped the World's Most Annoying Cabin Girl, "And there's so much of him, I'm sure there is a bit that I could work on…"

Ranger stood up and grabbed Becky by the elbow, and they headed for the gunwales; there was a brief shriek followed by a splash, then she returned, dusting off her hands.

"Avast, you insatiable viragos," instructed Ronnie, "You will leave Lieutenant Winchester unmolested whilst he assists me. Now, Sam, hand me that piece of puddle iron, and we shall make a start…"

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Dean stood at the wheel of the _Impala_. As Captain, there was no need for him to do so, he was within his rights to require another of his officers to watch the compass and steer their course, but he had enjoyed being at the helm since he was not even old enough to manage the wheel or take the bearing by himself. Now, the skies were clear, the wind was fair, and the sea stretched out before her, rigging creaking in a familiar and soothing chorus, canvas snapping above his head, the crisp breeze tugging at his shirt which was open so that he might enjoy the cool air against his skin, the sun playing on the waves and the light scattering of freckles across his cheeks. Dean Winchester smiled; feeling the _Impala_ respond beneath him, knowing that wherever he might sail her, he was home.

Crowley rather spoiled the moment by landing on the railing behind him and bellowing "Wanker!"

"Wretched creature," sighed Dean, "Did I not set Charlie to teaching you to say something more civil, maybe even more nautical? Drop anchor? Hoist the colours? Who's a pretty boy?"

"Drop yer rompers, pretty boy," a parrot should not be able to leer, but somehow Crowley contrived it.

"I should have George the cook turn you into a pie," Dean muttered, "And she could gain a feather duster out of it into the bargain."

"There would not be much eating on such a small bird," the voice of First Mate Castiel said behind him.

"Bitch!" shrieked Crowley.

"Where is Charlie?" demanded Dean, "I gave orders that the lad was to re-educate this bird!"

"You might as well as tell a whelk to hold back the tide," Castiel replied with an almost-smile, "For Crowley is utterly recalcitrant, and Charlie is most absorbed in his navigation studies with the Master. Andrew has declared that the boy has an aptitude, and is a most attentive student."

Dean smiled. "I am happy to hear it. Charlie is a good boy, and will make a fine sailor one day. When he grows somewhat."

Castiel frowned. "I have been wondering whether he is perhaps not getting enough to eat, to spur on his progress to manhood," he stated, "For in form, and in voice, he is lingering in childhood for his age."

"You may be correct," Dean hummed thoughtfully, "For I do recall how much I suddenly wanted to eat when I began to grow into a man. My father despaired of 'keeping me in fodder', as he put it. Oh, and Sam, he was worse. And privation in early life may delay and stifle a boy's healthy transition to adulthood, I have seen it."

"Truly, I think that we should have him examined by a doctor, a capable one," Castiel confided, "If only to put my mind at rest."

"The only treatment he needs is an evening at Mistress Amanda's capital establishment," Dean declared dismissively, "For a night of negotiable affection will make a man of him, and benefit him more than any leeching or purging will do."

Whilst they were remonstrating about the welfare of the cabin boy, said individual approached them, and tugged respectfully at the brim of his cap. "Captain, we need to alter course."

Dean quirked an eyebrow and smiled wryly in a way that would either have had even one of Mistress Amanda's most long-standing customer care consultants swooning and looking around for the nearest horizontal surface, or any other man scowling and looking around for a bottle to break over his head to wipe that devil-may-care expression off his handsome face. "Do we, now?"

"Yes," answered Charlie firmly. "Master Jaeger is charting a route in accordance with your instructions."

"Show me, then." Dean stepped back; with only a moment of hesitation, Charlie took his place, consulted the ship's compass, and carefully began to bring the ship to port. "So, where are we headed then, Captain Charlie?"

"We are bearing south, sir," replied the cabin boy, not taking his eyes off the glass as the ship creaked in response to the helm.

"Capital!" grinned Dean, "For in that direction, many of my very favourite ports lie. And in my favourite ports, you will find my favourite venues. And in my favourite venues, you will find many attractive women who have a certain friskiness about them, and I think that for you, Charlie, this would be a beneficial thing…"

"Captain, I do not think it wise or proper for you to lead a boy on the verge of manhood into temptation, debauchery, intemperance and sin."

"Oh, Castiel, must you always be such a damned Puritan?"

"WANKER! WANKER! YOU EAT THE DAMNED CRACKER!"

"Belay that racket!" snapped Dean, "If the Master requires this course to take his sightings to locate our prey, then I for one shall not complain overly loudly about it…"

"Oh, he has done that, sir," Charlie interrupted. "Thanks to the speed of the _Impala_ , he believes he has plotted the location of the _She-Wolf._ And she is headed for the Caribbean."

* * *

Oh, Dirty Miranda, you melodramatic bunny, you. I rather think that Leahelisabeth would enjoy seeing Sam get a flogging. Provided she was allowed to tend to him afterwards. It's all rather dreadful really. But let's see where this bunny goes. Besides to the Caribbean, I mean (I hope you've all packed your bathing suits and your sunscreen and your waterproof cameras).


	13. Chapter 13

Unfortunately, Dirty Miranda didn't have anything to say on International Talk Like A Pirate Day, but belatedly she has dictated some more purple pirate prose…

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen**

George emerged from the galley with coffee, partly to serve it to the officers gathered to discuss their voyage, and partly to watch Dean prowl, for when Dean prowled up and down the deck like an alpha wolf in his prime he was a magnificent sight to behold, his smouldering gaze promising either mayhem and murder or possibly escapades of carnal delight, depending on the context and quite possibly both if the circumstances were peculiarly specific and the lady was peculiarly frisky.

Yes, George was quite fond of watching the Captain when he was prowling.

"You are certain of this?" he demanded. "She is making for the West Indies?"

"I am," replied Andrew, "The _She-Wolf_ is not as fast as the _Impala_ , and your prey will be carrying cargo; she could not outrun you in a fair pursuit."

"But she will outgun you," Bobby cut in grimly, "We've heard tell o' that."

"I suspect that Master Jaeger's plan to lay an ambush might be most prudent," opined Castiel. "Make for the islands, lie off shore to the south of them, until we can establish where exactly the _She-Wolf_ is headed, then we may steal into port, locate your brother, and retrieve him."

"I know you're spoilin' for a fight, boy," Bobby cautioned, "On account of being anxious about your brother. But if she's crewed by these werewolf critters, then a full frontal attack is asking for a whuppin', if they aint inclined to let him go."

"And two crews brawling will draw unwanted attention," Castiel reminded him, "For recall that the Caribbean is frequented by those who would rather avoid the attention of persons of officialdom – any disturbance that draws such attention will be ill-received, and may inspire others to attempt to quell the instigator, which would be you."

Dean's shoulders slumped, and his face took on the veiled vulnerability that he rarely showed even to his closest friends, and certainly never off the confines of his ship, lest women for a radius of a dozen yards around him swoon and require their corsets to be loosened. "I must find him," he said in a low voice, "Before that seagoing termagant perpetrates some monstrous offence against his person. If she has not already done so. Sold him off, or kept him for her own private and perverse amusement, an unwilling pet chained in her cabin, adorned with nothing but a collar and shackles, where he is required to dance attendance upon her carnal whims or suffer the terrible consequences of a flogging to bring him to heel – he will resist, he can have a terrible temper when roused, I can just see him now, gagged and tied for his insolence as she forces her attentions upon him…"

"Strangely enough, so can I," mused George to nobody in particular.

"Catastrophising and fearing the worst does nothing to help the situation," Castiel chided his captain and best friend gently. "The Master's plan is a good one. We should execute it."

"Wanker!" Crowley fluttered down from the rigging to land on Dean's coffee mug, dip his beak in, and take a drink. "Wanker! Drop yer rompers, pretty boy! Hello sailor!"

"Begone, awful avian!" snapped Dean, waving a hand at the parrot, who squawked and flapped over to Bobby's shoulder.

"Darling, darling, hello sailor." The bird bobbed up and down, nuzzling at Bobby's ear.

"Idjit animal."

"Mayhap there will be opportunity to feed you to a monstrous wolf creature," Dean muttered. "Failing that, I should return him to Rowena, for he was part of a bargain…"

"BITCH!" screeched Crowley, taking wing and circling Dean to let fly with several globs of guano. "Bitch! Lucifer's bum! Bollocks! Bugger off! You eat the damned cracker, wanker!"

"Aaaaaargh!" As Crowley swooped back to the rigging, where he continued his tirade of obscenities, Dean inspected his clothing. "God's death, that thrice-damned pet of Satan has beshitted me! Oh, it be in my hair! And down my shirt! I'll see you roasted whole for that, you feathered demon!"

"Perhaps you should wash, Captain," suggested George, "All over, for preference. Yes, I shall draw you a bath from the mysteriously readily available source of fresh water we have aboard this vessel for the purposes of prurient narrative development, although I'm sure that a quick dip overboard would leave you rendered just as effectively if somewhat disappointingly more clothedly abluted."

"I have no idea what you just said," Dean replied, "But I will definitely have to wash off the parrot crap."

"Plus, the breeze is cool," George intoned ominously. "We don't want you to catch a chill – many informed persons of medical knowledge believe at this time in history that being cold causes pneumonia, as the germ theory of disease is still a number of centuries away." She added "Brrrrrr" for good measure.

As if to reinforce the necessity for Dean to have a bath, a sudden cold wind sprang up, chilling them all.

"George is correct," Castiel decided, "Hot water will be more effective at removing the stench of parrot dung."

"It aint natural, washin' all over," growled Bobby. "Not healthy for the pores."

"Well, I have done so before, and suffered no ill effects," Dean noted, "So, I shall take your advice, Castiel, and yours, George."

Giggling happily to herself, George went off to make preparations, and Dean was thankful that he had a crew member so solicitous of his wellbeing.

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"I feel silly," Sam mumbled, staring at his hands. As moonrise approached, he had reluctantly laid aside his trousers, and was now locked into one of the cells of the brig with the captain, in the main to contain him if he could not gain control of his wolf form, but with the happy side effect of keeping the ladies of the crew away, for which he was strangely grateful, because he was finding himself seized by a strange irrational urge to clutch his trousers to his person whenever they approached, and had taken to seeking out the company of l'Orleano, whom he could not understand but could depend upon to shoo the untimid hoydens away and do nothing more confronting than sing the praises of the ship's guns in his own impenetrable ergot.

"Do not," instructed Ronnie firmly. "All those who find themselves transformed must go through the same exercise."

"What if I cannot control myself?" Sam almost wailed. "I could not last time!"

"You were unintentionally provoked," she replied soothingly, "This time, you shall have your full concentration and focus. If you cannot control your form, mayhap you will at least control your thoughts and conduct. Now, moonrise approaches, so, concentrate on your hands – you have seen the wolf form, you know what it is, so visualise your hands transforming, expanding, stretching to become what they strive to become."

With a decidedly huffy humph, he resumed staring at his hands, and tried to imagine the human digits lengthening, thickening, and becoming the large shaggy paws that he had observed on the other werewolves aboard.

Suddenly, his hands began to swell before his astonished eyes, and he gasped with surprise. Captain Shepherd smiled.

"Well done, Lieutenant, you have made a fine start, now, think of your other self, your primal self, not the self that is an officer and a gentleman, the self that lies beneath the veneer, and yearns to feel the wind in its fur."

Redoubling his efforts, Sam tried to conjure thoughts of what it would feel like to run on all fours beneath the moon.

"Oh my word, Captain, I believe something is happening, yes, I am certain of it, something is happening to me, good heavens, perhaps you should remove yourself from this cell in case I am suddenly transformed and inclined to do something uncivilised and savage to yooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOW!"

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Dean lifted a foot from the rough wooded tub and was considering cutting his toenails when Castiel came to find him.

"It pleases me that you are willing to defy Bobby's superstition and bathe on a regular basis," said the First Mate, "For it is healthful to wash all over regularly."

"I am pleased too," smiled George, bringing in another bucket of water, "Do you require help to wash any bits you cannot reach yourself, Captain?"

"No thank you, George," Dean smiled, the expression made strangely more alluring from the water beaded on his skin, "Just dump it in, I am adequately clean and can no longer smell parrot."

With a beaming smile and a small curtsey, George upended the bucket over Dean, then left.

"I am truly blessed," sighed Dean, taking up the rough cloth and scrubbing at his skin once more, "And humbled to know that people care about my well-being. You, of course. And Bobby. And George, bless her, though she be cook aboard the _Impala_ , with much to do, she is always solicitous of my health when I bathe, why, each time she offers to wash my back, and she is constantly in and out of here fetching water, or soap, you just wait, she will be in here offering to warm my towel and hand it to me when I am done…"

"Those who serve with you are fond of you," Castiel gave one of the almost-smiles that was his habit.

"Do remember the time I fell into that barrel of that exotic new concoction called 'chocolate', and was completely coated in the stuff? George was as attentive as any general's batman, she insisted that I keep washing until she was satisfied that I was completely clean."

"She was so worried about you that I believe she would have been prepared to use her own tongue to rid you of the treacherous stuff," Castiel nodded in remembrance. "Truly, she is a charitable woman."

"So, the Master has set our course," mused Dean, "And we are in pursuit."

"Indeed," agreed Castiel, "It will take some weeks, which for purposes of efficient plot progression will not be documented in excruciating detail, but we shall likely overtake the _She-Wolf_ , given that the _Impala_ is a swift vessel, and our quarry will be low in the water with cargo."

"And then, we lay our trap," Dean grinned wolfishly and shook water from his hair. "As soon as my brother is aboard, he will no doubt want to wash the foul stench of buccaneers from himself – I do pity him, having no female crew members to be so solicitous of his health."

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In astonishment, Sam stared down at himself. It was a long way down, and his pointed ears brushed the rough-hewn ceiling of the brig.

"You are a tall one. And brown of pelt, my eyes were not deceiving me, that is most unusual, but not at all unattractive."

He whipped around to see the Captain, smiling, staring up at her from a long way down.

 _Oh, er… I am… I am most hirsute. Very… furry._

"That is usual, for a werewolf," she chuckled, "Forsooth would you look most peculiar completely bare."

"Oh, we do not mind him completely bare!" chirped a voice behind them. He whirled around to see LeeLiz, MarieLee and Ranger standing outside the brig cell, smiling widely. They broke into applause. "You are most magnificent, Lieutenant!"

"I shall just take these while you don't need them," MarieLee reached through the bars and swiftly grabbing up his trousers, "For I did notice a small tear, and we would not want that small tear to become a larger tear."

"Depending on where it is," LeeLiz suggested, "I might not be too alarmed if Lieutenant Winchester's trousers became torn.

With a yelp of alarm, Sam dived at the bars, long hairy arm swiping at the purloined garment, desperate to retrieve the one small concession to gentlemanly modesty to which he had recourse.

Unfortunately, he had no practice with his werewolf form, and his long claws tore at the fabric.

"Oh, dear," sighed Ranger, prodding at the shredded haberdashery, "I believe that your trousers are damaged beyond salvage, good sir."

"But fear not," LeeLiz told him resolutely, "We shall sew you another pair, with our own hands! I would be pleased to participate in tailoring them to your own person directly this time…"

"But we cannot do that until after sunrise," MarieLee said firmly, "For the sun is setting and the light is fading, and sewing by lantern or candle or moonlight is detrimental to the eyesight, and may lead to unfortunate claims of workplace health and safety negligence on the part of our employer."

Sam found himself letting out a short howl as they departed. _Oh, those wretched viragos! Forward harridans! Prurient termagants! Bold women, all, determined to vex me mightily with their wenchly ways!_

"Fear not, Sam," Ronnie chuckled, "You are in no danger, though they be women who know their own minds."

Sam cocked his head. _You understood me?_

"Of course," Ronnie cocked an eyebrow, "I have been 'speaking' Canine for a very long time. And you understand me, clearly. This bodes well – you are in command of your intellectual faculties."

 _For all the good it may do me,_ Sam humphed in a canine fashion _, For once more, I find myself in a state of unseemly trouserlessness and helpless to do anything about it._

"For many hours now you will have no need of garmentry," the Captain reminded him. "Shall we go on deck, where you may make trial of your new manifestation?"

 _After you_ , Sam managed a small bow without bumping his head – he really was very tall, even for a werewolf – then Captain Shepherd unlocked the cell, hung the key on its peg, and shrugged to perform her own shapeshift. He had a better chance to study her: she was much shorter than he, though very heavily built, with grey fur, and the scarring on her face and the tattooing of her skin were still visible. She panted her amusement.

 _Aye, I be short, even for a female, but any aboard will swear that I compensate by way of cunning, viciousness and treachery. Come, let us take the night air. The others aboard will be astir, and your first conscious shapeshift should be a joyous occasion. Where possible, the nights of the full moon are occasions for recreation aboard this vessel._

She headed for the ladder, then paused.

 _I would be grateful if you would refrain from beheading, defenestrating or tossing overboard any of the ladies who abducted your trousers – after all, they will more readily sew you a new pair with their arms still attached to them._

With a humph of good-natured acquiescence, he followed.

* * *

Oh, the sheer trouserlessness of it all, where will it end? How long will Dean stay in the bath? Will Sam take a bath? If he does, will he have trousers to wear afterwards, or will he find himself once more bereft of britches? Will the womenfolk of the She-Wolf fall to brawling over who passes him the towel? The sheer purple piratical perturbation is overwhelming. What is Dirty Miranda the buccaneering plot bunny, that roving raiding rabbit, up to? Feed her reviews to find out!


	14. Chapter 14

I ATEN'T DEAD.

No, really. It's just that Real Life gets in the way. You know how it is.

On top of that, Dirty Miranda Flint is the only plot bunny left in the Jimiverse pen, and she mostly hides in the hutch and refuses to come out (the weather Down Here has been a bit ordinary). Sadly, there are no new stories on the horizon, but Dirty Miranda did pop her head out long enough to dictate another chapter of this ongoing lunacy…

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen**

The moonlight seemed extraordinarily bright to Sam's lupine senses, and the rapid succession of scents that came to his nose, vivid and intriguing, caught his attention.

The deck of the _She-Wolf_ was host to an extraordinary series of sights: the members of the crew who were werewolves were all in their monstrous forms, amusing themselves by racing up and down the length of the ship, or indulging in good-natured wrestling matches, egged on by the rest of the crew (apart from Doctor McGregor, who was a lone voice railing against uncivilised behaviour).

 _Many things will be more acute to your wolf perceptions_ , Captain Shepherd rumbled with some amusement.

 _This is all most… unexpected_ , Sam gruffed back, turning his nose to the breeze, intrigued by the rapid-fire arrival of so much information to a sense that his human self barely used. A grizzled old wolf – Douglas the carpenter, he realised from the passing train of scent – galloped past on all fours with two of the powder monkey boys clinging to his back, giggling. _And the crew seem… merry. Not at all inclined to slavering and monstrous wrath or animalistic rampage._

 _Despite what has befallen many of her complement, this is in the main a happy ship,_ the captain told him, as a small impromptu band struck up a tune and l'Orleano began to sing in his own dialect, _And it pleases us to take our ease at the full moon if it be possible._ _We are all one pack, wolf or otherwise. And so long as you choose to stay with us, you are one of us, and welcome also._

The sudden smell of fresh meat made his stomach rumble and his mouth water.

 _A fresh kill from the 'larder'_ , the Captain panted happily, _Ranger will serve up good meat to the wolves who prefer their meat rare before preparing it for the rest of the crew._

There was a sudden commotion behind them as a smaller wolf with a golden pelt – Gabriel – went rushing past, leaving much ado and consternation in his wake as he made a beeline for the scent of meat. _Last one there has to eat hooves!_ he yapped cheerfully as he passed.

 _We had best avail ourselves of tonight's bounty,_ suggested Ronnie _, For truly, Gabriel can eat an astonishing amount for one of his size. It borders on the Capital Vice of Gluttony._

 _I heard that!_ came the unrepentant reply _, And I will have you know that I am not greedy, I am merely… compact._

 _One day, somebody will shackle that aggravating midget to Becky and throw them both overboard,_ muttered Ronnie. _Come, let us claim sustenance for ourselves before the arch-glutton commandeers the most choice of cuts._

It was a remarkable evening of merry-making; at least, it was remarkable to Sam, for he had not experienced such recreations since he was aboard his father's ship, as His Majesty's Navy did not approve of such frivolous activity, and even on days of celebration it was not proper for officers to desport themselves alongside the crew. Despite his circumstances, he found that he was enjoying himself. But there was one thing that was bothering him.

 _What of my return to human form?_ He asked the captain, _Will I attain the capacity to remanifest in the shape to which the Almighty appointed me?_

 _If need be I shall help you to practise_ , she assured him, _And you may do so yourself at any time whilst you are on board, for we are not strangers to newly turned wolves undertaking exploration of their nature. Rest assured that you will most definitely be a man once more when the moon sets. But for now, enjoy your time in your lupine form, which is, I must say, most aesthetically pleasing, for I see that your height and musculature have translated most happily, why, any unbonded young she-wolf of mateable age would find you irresistible, I am sure…_

He wasn't sure if a wolf could blush, but Sam thought he might be doing just that.

The moon was just about to set when he heard a different strain of music above the sound of the laughing, singing and dancing taking place around him. Barely audible at first, it became clearer the more carefully he listened to catch its strains. It was a song, he realised, a single voice, a high lilting soprano raised in a tune completely different to the giddy reels and bawdy ballads being enjoyed by the crew, it was an intricate, haunting melody, conjuring ideas of safety and welcome. Intrigued, he followed the sound.

His paws took him astern, where three women sat, apparently enjoying the pleasant breeze and the smell of the ocean. One of them turned to him and smiled, patting the timber beside her. He sat, feeling somewhat dazed, carefully folding his large wolf form, and cocked his head, the better to listen to her beautiful song.

I sing of spring, of cool spring nights,  
A maiden's fancy turns to sights  
Upon the like of which she may  
But yearn to steal a glimpse away,  
As forward as a maid may dare  
When moon is full and wolves are bare,  
Perchance to tarry, sing, allure  
Admire a firm musculature  
A fine broad chest, with wondrous lats,  
And bulging biceps ringed with tatts,  
Fie, Mistress Moon, to steal that view,  
And claim that bounty all for you!  
To hide most fine anatomy  
Beneath such fur that none may see!  
Release him from such superstition  
So we may see such definition,  
Handsome face, to smile, at ease,  
And nipples perky in the breeze,  
O grant my heart's desiderata –  
Trouserless would be a starter…

He had no idea how long he sat, gazing out at the ocean, listening to the beautiful song weave its haunting and irresistible melody in an almost tangible web of wonderful warbling – he could sit and listen to it forever…

"A _hem_."

His reverie broken by the pointed throat-clearing, Sam started; he realised that the moon was down, the sun was up, and he was slouched comfortably at the stern. LeeLiz, MarieLee and Ranger sat opposite him, smiling. Miss Tsweetie, the _She-Wolf's_ First Mate, was the one who had interrupted, and was glaring at them.

Oh, and he was back to his human form, and was yet once more appallingly stark naked.

With a small shriek he shot to his feet.

"We were merely taking our ease, and enjoying the view," explained MarieLee helpfully.

"You may look at the ocean at any time," the First Mate scolded.

"Well, of course," Ranger explained, "And we were looking at that also, a little."

"What has happened here?" yelped Sam, edging behind Tsweetie as the other women continued to smile at him. "One moment I was becoming acquainted with my wolf form, then I was listening to some most beautiful music, and the next… I… did I fall asleep?"

"You were lured by the song of a Siren," Tsweetie told him, frowning at LeeLiz, who just sighed happily, "And have been sitting here, entranced, since you reverted back to your manly figure, for LeeLiz is that Siren, and may spin her toils around a man with her unearthly voice talent."

"Yes, his very manly manly figure," LeeLiz noted, and the others nodded vigorously.

"If Lieutenant Winchester suffers sun burn due to his lack of acclimatisation to exposure, the Captain will be most displeased," warned the First Mate.

"Oh, adequate exposure is vitally important for health," MarieLee insisted, "Verily, some centuries from now, natural philosophers will determine that the human being must utilise UVB radiation for the synthesis of the vital nutrient cholecalciferol, which is in fact a steroid but will be designated Vitamin D to make supplementation of foodstuffs acceptable to the general public who would otherwise not countenance it being included in everyday staples, such as bread."

"And yet, his life at sea has left him somewhat tanned already," Ranger pointed out, "What a wonderful opportunity to work on erasure of some tan lines without recourse to a sun bed, which nefarious contraptions are acknowledged by all thoughtful persons of an analytical nature to be dangerous to one's well-being, promoting unhealthy and premature ageing of the very substance of that which is responsible for passing particular traits to progeny."

"Do not attempt to avert your lewd intent with anachronistic appeals to biochemical necessity or cynical marketing targeting people's insecurities about their appearances!" snapped Tsweetie, "For it is well know that the Narrative Causation Fairy must have at least a tenuous context upon which to hang the most outrageously improbable plot device, no matter how desperate a fickriter may be to please readers and hence solicit reviews! Fie, the Captain will be most unhappy when she is informed of your lewdness and rudeness and generally pervy naughtiness."

Suddenly Becky appeared. "Oh, I say, am I too late for the singing thing? My goodness, he looks even firmer in the daylight…"

"Very well, Lieutenant," sighed MarieLee, casually pushing Becky overboard as she stood, "I shall begin work on another pair of trousers for you. Although in order to do that, I shall have to take some measurements of you."

"What?" Sam's eyes bugged in horror. "But, but, you already did that, when I was unsensible, you haberdashing hoyden!"

"But I didn't write it down," MarieLee pointed out, "At this time in history, only about a quarter of women can read or write."

"And yet the emphasis on reading the Bible in Church following the Reformation has led to an increase in literacy amongst the populace," Sam countered.

"Well, they didn't include me," humphed MarieLee, taking a tape measure from somewhere about her person and brandishing it the way Mistress Amanda of the _Nevada_ might flourish one of her silk rope toys for her more broad-minded clients, "So stand up straight, and let's have a look at that length, shall we?"

"I would be pleased to help you with the inside leg measurement!" chirped LeeLiz.

"I shall stand by to protect you from interlopers!" added Ranger, shoving Becky back into the water when she tried to clamber back aboard.

Sam let out a horrified shriek and fled.

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Still scrubbed pink and rosy from his bath, Dean rubbed at his hair with a towel the cleanliness and fluffiness would have seemed anachronistic to anybody on board who could spell it. George stood by solicitously with his shirt, musing to herself about how very attractive the Captain was when freshly washed.

"We have changed course, Captain. Whither are we bound?" she asked, as she thought to herself that given a chance and her favourite wooden spoon she could think up some more ways to make him very pink and rosy indeed.

"The Carribean, George," he smiled, his tousled head popping out from beneath the towel as he reached for his shirt which she held ever so slightly out of reach so he had to stretch for it while she admired the play of muscle under his skin, "We shall lay off the islands, then wait for our prey to come to us. Once we have retrieved my brother from the monstrous clutches of the lust-crazed wolf-woman, we shall dispatch the rest of their crew, send the vessel to the bottom, and head for Port Royal."

"Oh, I will like to visit Port Royal again," George smiled, for she had fond memories of their last visit: the spice markets allowed her to replenish her kitchen stocks, and there was also the recollection of the last time Captain Winchester drank a surfeit of Jamaican rum and began to shed clothing in the tropical heat as he danced.

"So shall I," sighed Dean, "For truly the ladies of the Islands are most wonderful creatures; last time we were in port there, I did chance to meet a lady of dusky complexion and frisky temperament, and…"

"I beg you, spare us yet another example from your indecently large repertoire of Women With Whom I Have Fornicated anecdotes," intoned the gravelly voice of First Mate Castiel, as he gave Dean one of him most intense Wrath Of An Offended Angel stares.

"Might as well as tell the tide to stop risin' and fallin'," griped Bobby, "Or tell him not to drink to excess."

"I do not drink to excess!" protested Dean.

"In my experience, boy, you'll drink to anything," the old Quartermaster muttered.

"Bobby is correct," Castiel frowned, "It would be prudent for you to moderate your intake of intoxicating liquor – hard drink is a snare for the soul, and an excess of anything is Gluttony, the Capital Vice, and therefore deplorable unto The Lord."

"But it's good for me!" Dean almost whined, "Last time we did visit, you were quick to point out the healthful merits of the local produce!"

"What I said was that a moderate intake of fresh fruit is of benefit to the physical body," Castiel corrected him.

"I did partake of a moderate intake of the fruit!" Dean was adamant.

"Dean, just because you were drinking rum out of a pineapple, that does not make it beneficial," Castiel pointed out.

Dean let out a huff that would have bordered on flouncing, if he had not been standing shirtless and looking tanned and virile. "We must perforce forego the delights of the West Indies until such time as we have rescued Sam," he said firmly. "After which, he might require the imbibition of enormous amounts of alcohol in order to recover from his hideous and traumatising ordeal."

"Drinkin' himself into oblivion might not actually be terribly helpful," Bobby suggested.

Dean would here none of it. "Pish, he is a Winchester – the men of our family do cope with all manner of strife and worry by embarking upon a good bender. It is a foolproof method that works for me every time. We shall bring him aboard, I shall feed him good dark rum until he is as drunk as a lord, then after he has been thoroughly sick he will be quite restored. I shall even see to it that he shall have his very own pineapple. Or possibly a coconut, if the swallows are migrating."

"I don't understand that reference," complained Castiel.

"You need not understand it, Castiel," Dean pulled his shirt over his head and carefully tucked it into his trousers because undergarments hadn't been widely adopted across European cultures yet, "You need only have that blade of yours close at hand, when needs must – mayhap you will acquire yourself a nice wolfskin coat, or at least a pelt to throw across your bunk. On one occasion, when I sailed north into cold climes, I did encounter a lady who had furs on her bed, and from personal experience I can tell you that the sensation of fur was most…"

"There will be no wolfskins to collect."

The new Master's voice made them all jump. They turned, to see him grinning at them, his one eye full of amusement.

"Jesu, Master Jaeger, why must you creep about like a thief in the night?" demanded Dean.

"Wolves is on the whole silent critters, ambush predators," explained Bobby, "Sneakin' up on other critters is what they do."

"Well, cease and desist forthwith, if not sooner," snapped Dean. "If you have nothing better to do, return to your calculations, and trouble us no more with your cryptic pronounciations."

"There is nothing cryptic in my remark, Captain," the wolf-man chuckled, "I merely point out that, should a werewolf be slain in beastly form, it will revert to human upon death."

"That is what the legends specify," Castiel mused, "It seems that you are to be denied further erotic fantasies about seducing women on a bed of furs. For which we should all no doubt be extremely thankful."

"Furthermore, I am come hither to warn you of bad weather approaching," the Master continued.

"Bad weather?" echoed Dean, moving to a port hole and gazing out at the calm ocean and clear blue sky. "There be no hint of tempest, Master, we enjoy good winds and good sailing."

"For now," growled Andrew, "But I tell you it is approaching, for I am no longer fully a man, and may sometimes sense things that others do not."

"It's a thing canines can do," Bobby nodded, "Remember that dog, the stray shepherd dog that adopted me on a port call in the Holy Roman Empire? Rumsfeld? Who'da thunk a puppy that small could get that big, anyways, he could tell when bad weather was comin' days before it hit."

"We will take warning from your instincts, Master Jaeger," Castiel said firmly, "As prudent officers will, when the Master has something to impart."

"Very well," Dean agreed, "If we are not close enough to make a safe port or a sheltered anchorage, or at least a windward shore, we will head for deep water where we may ride it out most safely." He grinned at George. "Since the ovens must be doused in such an event, perhaps you could bake us some of your most famous pies at once, for I find that the ones full of apple are most sustaining, hot or cold, through all manner of trials."

"I shall do so, sir," George bobbed a quick curtsey and headed to her domain, happy in the knowledge that the Captain would be unable to resist her most delicious pastries and she would therefore have a completely acceptable reason to be smacking his backside with her wooden spoon.

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L'Orleano was speaking tenderly to the damaged cannon in his own dialect as he poked carefully at the touch hole with a priming iron when he straightened up, feeling that he was being watched. He turned to see two worried hazel eyes peering at him from behind a pile of timber.

"Hide me," begged Sam, "I beg you, L'Orleano, secrete me beneath your workbench, or at least help me to find a garment of some description…"

The gunwrangler hummed thoughtfully, then smiled broadly, gesturing to Sam to come out of hiding. Still smiling, he clapped the bewildered lieutenant on the shoulder, and indicated that he should follow.

Sam realised that they were heading for the workshop of Douglas the carpenter.

* * *

Oo-er, what is in store for the _Impala_? Where is Sam going? What is the airspeed velocity of a swallow carrying a coconut? Let's hope Dirty Miranda pipes up again soon so we may find out!


	15. Chapter 15

Well shiver me timbers and splice me mainbrace, look who hopped out of the fridge - it's Dirty Miranda Flint, the plot bunny who's been dictating a swashbuckling tale of purple pirate prose, improbable plot and gratuitous nudity. If we're honest here, it probably buckles more than it swashes, but it's been mildly entertaining for a handful of die-hard Denizens of the Jimiverse. Let us heave to and prepare to ship ballast and see what this loony leporid has in mind...

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen**

Later that morning, Sam found Captain Shepherd upbraiding three of her crew members for, as First Mate Miss Tsweetie had predicted, their lewdness, rudeness, and general pervy naughtiness.

"And in future, I expect you to behave yourselves like ladies and not depraved beldames in the presence of a Navy officer," she concluded sternly. "There are to be no more singing spells to induce him to lounge about in a state of general trouserlessness for your unseemly amusement."

"Oh, very well," pouted LeeLiz, "We shall just have to wait until he becomes as blasé about clothes as werewolves inevitably do."

"He must be a man of great innate propriety," observed Ranger, "For he remains astonishingly attached to clothing for one of a lupine nature."

"Take heart, ladies," MarieLee said, "For there is yet another pair of trousers to be made, and hence more measurements to be taken..."

"There will be no more measurements taken, you naughty ladies," huffed Sam, pouting so adorably that the three of them were moved to squee, "Should you truly require confirmation of my size..."

"Oh, we require no confirmation of that," grinned LeeLiz.

"Yes, we've seen that, and it's perfectly sized for the rest of you," confirmed Ranger.

"Fie, wicked women of unseemly thoughts!" snapped the Captain, "Cease attempting to discomfit the Lieutenant with your dreadful and deliberate misunderstandings of his meaning!" She turned to face Sam. "I must apologise for my crew, Sam, they are shameless hussies and... what on earth are you wearing?"

Sam drew himself up with considerable dignity. "I borrowed it from Douglas the carpenter," he answered, "At L'Orleano's suggestion. At least, I think that's what he was suggesting, I really cannot understand a word he says. At any rate, Douglas and I are of the same clan, my mother having been a Campbell, and..."

"You need not explain yourself to me," smiled the Captain, regarding Sam as he stood resplendent in his newly acquired kilt of weathered Campbell tartan, "I just wondered where you had acquired it, that is all. You look well in it. A fine specimen, and a credit to your mother's clan."

"Indeed," enthused LeeLiz. "Why, he could be a Caledonian warrior of old, prepared to go into battle, wearing nothing but a kilt and some woad."

"If you would like, we would be happy to help you to apply woad," nodded LeeMarie.

"I bet he's going regimental," giggled Ranger, "For underpants as they are understood will not be in general use by most people for another couple of centuries."

"What have I told you about glaring anachronisms?" growled the Captain.

"I will demand a replacement pair of trousers," interrupted Sam, "And you may cut them from memory, ladies – should further measurements truly be necessary, I shall wield the tape myself and report back to you."

The three naughty ladies made noises of disappointment.

"And I should be obliged if you, Miss MarieLee, would get on with replacing my shirt," he added.

"Oh, but why?" she complained, "For truly you are a magnificent sight to behold in your bare chested glory, complete with tattoos and general air of fanserviceability."

"Didn't I just remind you about anachronisms?" the Captain practically wailed.

"I am not aboard this ship simply for your pervy amusement!" Sam stated.

"Actually, according to the Narrative Causation Fairy, who takes orders directly from the Fickriter, you are," Ranger pointed out.

"Stop bothering the Lieutenant at once with your silly assaults upon the fourth wall," ordered the Captain. "You have duties to be about. MarieLee, you will set about making him a new pair of trousers. LeeLiz, you shall start work on a shirt. And you, Ranger, had best start on lunch."

Grumbling, they left, hopefully to set about their tasks, though no doubt secretly planning upon further schemes of generally pervy naughtiness.

"Thank you, Captain," sighed Sam, "But I fear that they will drag their feet – or at least their needles – over their haberdashing."

"Most likely," she agreed, "But it will keep them occupied. Now, if you did not drink too much last night and are not feeling seedy, you may assist me and the other wolves with the storm canvas, for there is rough weather headed this way, or L'Orleano will no doubt appreciate your assistance with securing the guns; he has decided that you are fit to do so, which is not mean honour, as he is as solicitous of them as if they were his children."

"Actually, I do feel a little... peculiar," Sam confided. "Twitchy. Overly alert, though against what threat, I know not."

"You are smelling the weather," her face became serious. "There is a storm coming this way, not unusual as we approach the Tropics. We shall run before it for as long as we may, but if it turns as severe as I suspect it will, we must tack to steer into it; fear not, Lieutenant, the _She-Wolf_ is sturdy for her size, but she is well in ballast with cargo, and has never so much as threatened to broach. I would fain change our course, but if the safety of the ship and her crew depend on it, so be it. Jamaica will still be there."

"You sound like my brother Dean," smiled Sam, "The safety of the _Impala_ and her crew were ever his concern. Well, that, and worrying about me as though I was a wandering chick and he a flapping hen."

"It is an older sibling trait," Captain Shepherd smiled a little, "Do not chafe at his concern for you – we cannot help but worry for the wellbeing of our younger sibs." She took a deep breath, and frowned. "Damn. Coming from the north-west, I wager. Come, Lieutenant, let us make ourselves useful – fretting about the weather will not secure the ship."

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"I fear you must douse the stove soon, George," Dean told the _Impala's_ cook regretfully as she brought him his coffee. Just as Master Jaeger had predicted, clouds were gathering on the horizon, the wind had picked up, and the swell was starting to deepen.

"I shall not do so until it becomes necessary," she assured him, "And be reassured that my pies taste just as good cold."

"Indeed they do," Dean smiled at the very thought. "And they are also considerably easier to eat without the nuisance of plates."

"You will be required to mind your manners, Captain," George reminded him sternly, but not so sternly that he would pay any attention for she did not really wish to discourage any show of bad table manners that would enable her to smack him smartly on the rear with her spoon once more. "I don't care how bad the weather gets."

"The crew is reefing sail, as per your orders," supplied First Mate Castiel, "We will lose headway with naught but storm sails remaining aloft."

"Aye, mayhap we will," declared Dean grimly, his face a picture of handsome resolve, "But better to slow down now and save our sails with all hands safe, rather than risk losing anyone trying to get aloft when the weather turns foul. And it will."

"It already has," grumped Bobby, squinting at the horizon. "That wind is picking up as we speak."

"It is a tropical storm," confirmed Master Jaeger, appearing from nowhere as was his discombobulating habit, "It will overtake us within two turns of the glass. I can smell the rain already."

"There you are, Castiel," grinned Dean, "Bobby will get a thorough washing, which should please you. I of course shall remain on deck to see to the safety of the ship."

"You can trust others with the wheel, ya idjit," Bobby grumbled, concern for Dean's willingness to spend multiple watches in the teeth of a gale leaking into his voice.

"I know that, but the _Impala_ is mine to command, and mine to protect," Dean told him firmly, cutting a manly and authoritative figure as he stood gazing out at the sea, "I am her Captain, and should peril befall us, the doubloon stops with me."

"You are risking a whack in the head from the Narrative Causation Fairy for using an expression that will not come into common use for hundreds of years yet," warned Castiel.

"Nonetheless, guiding the ship safely through a storm is my responsibility," Dean stated firmly, making George smile at the thought of him standing resolutely at the wheel, soaked to the skin, with his clothing clinging to his body, "As I would care for the welfare of an old and entirely beloved friend."

"She may run before it, as long as she can," Master Jaeger told Dean, "But she is high in the water, and must turn while it is safe to do so, else risk a broach."

"Do not presume to tell me my job, Master Jaeger," Dean growled dangerously with a tiny curl to his fulsome top lip that would have made George go squee had she been present to see it. "Concern yourself with your duties, that is, the navigation of this vessel to find the _She-Wolf_."

Andrew was a werewolf, and not to be cowed by the captain's warning glare. "She is ahead, Captain Winchester, aye, closer than you might think; I can feel it. And this gale will take us closer, for she is not as swift as the _Impala_ , and will in all likelihood turn into the wind even before us, for Captain Shepherd is most conservative in matters of her vessel's welfare." He grinned, his milky eye unblinking. "We are north of Jamaica, and do not risk being driven ashore, but once the storm hits, we will inevitably be blown off course; I will not be able to determine our position again until the weather clears." He gazed out at the gathering storm clouds. "I like this not," he muttered, baring his teeth, which Dean would have sworn lengthened as he watched, "It be moving fast, and yet it does not have the feel of a typical storm of the tropics."

"It is common for animals, with their more acute senses, to be discomfited by the onset of bad weather," commented Castiel understandingly, "It may be that the more bestial part of your nature is reacting instinctively to the approaching tempest."

"Mayhap," growled Andrew, not looking around, "But I tell you, the closer we be to it, the less I like it."

"That is just sensible, for a seaman," Dean confirmed, "Do not discomfort yourself, Andrew – the _Impala_ is a most seaworthy ship, and she has survived many a storm in these latitudes."

"We shall see," muttered the Master unhappily, stalking off to sternward.

"Bollocks! Bollocks!" the shrieking squawk dropped out of the sky, followed by Crowley the parrot, to land on Dean's head.

"Away with you, ridiculous bird!" snapped the Captain, "Have you learned to say something appropriately parrot-like yet? Who's a pretty boy? Land ho? Crowley wanna cracker?"

"You eat the damned cracker, pretty boy," chattered Crowley. "Stupid ho."

"I'm sorry, Captain," Charlie the cabin boy apologised breathlessly as he ran up to them, "We were attempting a language lesson, but I'm afraid that Crowley is in no way motivated to mend his manners."

"Well, we have more pressing concerns," Dean shrugged philosophically, "We could always leave him aloft when the storm hits..."

"BOLLOCKS, BITCH!"

"Or you could take him below where he will be safe, if somewhat noisy," sighed Dean. "Or George could bake him into a pie before the oven must be doused."

" _BOLLOCKS!"_

"Oh, God's tits, take that critter below," snapped Bobby, "Afore I wring his neck myself."

The parrot fluttered from the Captain's head to the Quartermaster's shoulder, and rubbed his face on Bobby's ear. "Darling, darling," he crooned.

"Come along, Crowley," Charlie said firmly, dislodging the bird as Bobby grimaced in disgust, "We shall continue your language lessons later, when we are confined below due to the weather."

"Bitch," muttered Crowley.

"That may be soon, Charlie," Dean opined, "I fear, my boy, that introducing you to the delights of Port Royal's ladies of negotiable affection will be delayed, but fear not, I will introduce you myself to one of the more salubrious establishments. We will make a man of you yet, my boy."

"Bollocks!" chirped Crowley. "Who's not a boy, then?"

"I fear I may have set the lad an impossible task," Dean sighed, watching Charlie's perpetually perplexingly slight form depart with the chattering parrot, "For I believe that there may be something wrong with Crowley's mind, if indeed a parrot has one. Truly, he is literally a bird-brained creature."

Preparations to ride out the oncoming gale were well underway, which was just as well, for as the enigmatic Master Jaeger had predicted, it was upon them quickly, with rapidly escalating ferocity.

Even with nothing but the small heavy storm canvas unfurled, the _Impala_ surged on headlong before the rising wind, skimming the waves as Dean held the wheel firm on their heading, shaking his head to clear the water from his eyes as spray pelted him.

Moving from one handhold to another along the rolling deck, Castiel made his way to stand beside his captain and friend. "Usually I do not approve of strong drink," he began, "But Bobby is insistent that under the circumstances it would be for medicinal purposes." He proffered a small flask.

"Bobby is indeed correct," Dean smiled as he accepted the flask. Removing the stopper with his teeth, he took a long drink, then tucked it inside his coat. "Thank you, Castiel, now, get below, there is no need for any more than a minimum number to be on deck until we... what in the name of Hell is that fool doing?"

Following Dean's line of sight, Castiel looked up.

Halfway up the main mast, several feet along the yard, the ship's Master balanced, apparently heedless of his own safety, gazing out to sea with a small spyglass as if he were doing so on a fine day.

"Master Jaeger!" Dean called in his best Now Hear This voice, "Master Jaeger! Get back down here at once!"

The wolf man did not appear to have heard him. Or, thought Dean, he appeared to be ignoring his captain.

"MASTER JAEGER!" Dean bellowed, thinking that a disciplinary matter was the last thing he needed to deal with right at that moment, "ANDREW! For God's sake and your own, man, get down here NOW!"

In a casual and unhurried fashion that bordered on insubordination, Andrew moved nimbly for a man of his size, landing lightly on the deck and strolling easily along the moving surface as though taking the air on a pleasant day.

Dean was not impressed. "I should see you flogged for that," he snapped, "If you wish to end yourself, that is a matter between you and God, but by risking this ship's Master, you risk the lives of her entire crew!"

"Indeed, that would be perilous, should they be left at the mercy of your navigation," Andrew chuckled, entirely unrepentant. "But fear not, Charlie is a bright... lad, and would see you safely to port."

Castiel put a calming hand on Dean's shoulder, forestalling the captain's anger. "Wherefore did you go aloft in such perilous conditions?" he asked, "For you ran a high risk of being lost to us, if not overboard then by a fall from such a height."

"I judged the risk worthwhile," Andrew replied, handing the spyglass to Dean, "As you will see, should you care to look for yourself. There is a vessel, almost dead ahead, a couple of points to the east."

Incredulous, Dean raised the glass to his own eye, and trained it on the increasingly rough ocean.

After a few moments, to his astonishment, he found something.

"It is... aye, it is a vessel," he confirmed, "Though at this distance, I cannot tell what."

"I can," stated Andrew, "For I have not just the nature, but the eyes and instincts of the beast within me." His smile became that of a predator having just spotted prey. "And I can tell you acertain, it is the _She-Wolf_."

* * *

Gasp! Shock! Wow! Much melodramatic! Very drama! Why do I sound like doge? I know not. But let me know what you think. Incidentally, if there are any more recently arrived Denizens who would like to theorise about which ship they'd like to be in, and in which role, well, you never knew what Dirty Miranda might dictate next...


	16. Chapter 16

WARNING: anybody who makes unhelpful observations about how long it would actually take a sailing ship – even one as swift as the _Impala_ – to travel from England towards the Carribean to catch up with a ship that was already halfway there having sailed from the Americas, will get a whack in the head from the Narrative Causation Fairy. The _Impala_ is a very fast ship. They've been sailing for some weeks, and it would get too repetitive if I wrote several chapters of the naughty ladies ogling Sam and George smacking Dean on the arse with her wooden spoon. Well, some of you wouldn't mind, but this is crack, and a fickriter riting crack can rite whatever she likes. And it's probably because of quantum.

* * *

 **Chapter Sixteen**

Sam felt the tilt of the deck beneath him as the _She-Wolf_ heeled gently in the increasing pitch of the waves; L'Orleano paused to speak in a reassuring tone – to Sam or to the cannon they were securing, he wasn't sure – but he thought he might have got the gist.

"Er, yes, we are turning into the wind," he agreed. "Changing course slowly. Captain Shepherd has a great care for her ship and her crew. Certainly, it is making this work easier. Dealing with guns when the deck is heaving is a dangerous business for men. Or for werewolves, I should think."

L'Orleano frowned and added something, Sam didn't know what, but suspected that it was an observation about the peril to the cannon themselves, who were at the mercy of not just the weather but the competence of their crews. Giving one of the 32-pounders a final reassuring pat, he looked around, and appeared satisfied.

A breathless MarieLee appeared on the gun deck and bobbed him a small curtsey. "Cap'n wants all the wolves to assist with the sails," she announced, "She asks your assistance aloft, Lieutenant."

"Very well," Sam nodded to L'Orleano and headed back on deck.

The wind had picked up considerably, and as he bounded up the narrow ladder and onto the deck his kilt billowed up around him, causing him to squawk and flap at it. He was not happy to discover that he had an audience: the three naughty ladies of the She-Wolf's complement stood smiling and applauding.

"Avast, pervy wenches," he snapped, "Get below and take shelter, for the rain is starting and will become worse."

"We will do so presently," LeeLiz assured him, "But it is our habit to watch in admiration and marvel at the bravery of the crew as they handle the sails. Oh, what courage at such heady heights!"

"Well, see that you maintain your decorum," Sam growled, as they all curtsied and smiled at him.

He found the captain astern, in conference with First Mate Miss Tsweetie and giving final orders as she held the wheel. "Lieutenant," she acknowledged, "Are we secured below?"

"All is to L'Orleano's satisfaction," he confirmed, "And now I am here to assist with the canvas. I may be an officer, but I learned to reef sail when I was a boy, and the yards hold no terrors for me. But I see," he looked up, "That all is furled already, with only the smallest of storm sails aloft."

"Aye, I would see us prepared in good time," she told him, "Your willingness to assist does you credit, but it is not necessary."

Sam frowned. "And yet MarieLee did report that you had requested such assistance," he replied, confused.

The captain's scarred face drew into a scowl. "That is because she is a naughty lady, and they only wish to see you aloft in order that they might attempt to look up your kilt," she growled.

"But that is no longer necessary," called LeeLiz, as the aforementioned naughty ladies scuttled towards them, "Because as he climbed on deck, his kilt did billow around him as if he was a movie star centuries from now standing on an air vent grating."

Sam let out a noise of outrage as the first slosh of heaving water sprayed over the deck.

"And so it begins," Ronnie stated grimly, "We have prepared early, but this storm is moving fast. Get below at once, shameless viragos, and should there be further attempts to peer, leer or generally ogle at Sam in a naughty fashion, I shall have you all confined to quarters until an adequate number of garments are produced for him."

With sighs of disappointment, LeeLiz, MarieLee and Ranger retreated below.

"You may go too, Lieutenant," she grinned, "I have crew to assist me. Take care that they are not lying in wait at the foot of the ladder."

"I would prefer to stay," he countered, "For I am aware of the difficulty that may be faced in keeping a vessel on heading in the teeth of a tropical gale." He grabbed at the rigging as a large wave caused the ship to pitch forward. "Especially one that arises so fast. It promises to be a powerful storm."

"Very well," Captain Shepherd took up a line and secured it about her waist, indicating that he should do so as well, for a rope and a prayer were at this time the latest and most progressive thinking in matters of Workplace Health & Safety practice and hi-vis vests had not even been invented yet. "Betimes I am grateful for the assistance of another of a lupine nature when Mother Nature herself fights me for the rudder. But have a care, Lieutenant – it would grieve me sorely to have plucked you from the sea once, only to lose you again."

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"God's tits, what is the boy doin'?" demanded Quartermaster Bobby as Dean ran for the foredeck, spyglass under one arm and something else in his other hand.

"I have no idea," replied Castiel, "But I intend to find out."

He found Dean standing at the bow, squinting into the lowering weather. "Dean, what are you doing?" he asked. "You are captain of a ship that is about the business of preparing to ride out a storm."

"Master Jaeger spotted a vessel ahead," Dean replied, raising the glass. "Aye, and he's right." He handed the glass to Castiel. "He is certain that it be the _She-Wolf_."

"That is a grand claim to make," Castiel noted, observing the mote in the distance that was definitely another ship. "How are we to know that it is not wishful thinking on his part? For I do believe that his experiences have left him somewhat touched, as Ellen, proprietor of your favourite tavern, suggested."

"Perhaps," Dean acknowledged, "But the bestial side of his nature has gifted him with certain animal instincts that I shall not dismiss casually; his reckoning of the weather before there was so much as a wisp of cloud is one instance. Then, there is this." He held up his hand. "This most peculiar compass, the prize I won at cards from a most effeminate pirate whose name escapes me, Jake Swallow, possibly..."

"I recall the fellow," Castiel's tone dripped disapproval. "He wore more make-up than a simpering courtesan. And he did look most unmanly when he ran away."

"Just so," confirmed Dean, "And perforce, to this oddity, ostensibly a compass. It never points north, as you know, but when I have it about my person it will point towards the _Impala_ wherever I am. Until now." He held the compass out in front of him. "On board, usually it spins, because the _Impala_ is right here. But I have noticed that, since we began our quest to rescue Sam, it has unerringly aligned to the course indicated by the witch's compass, and thus now indicates the position of the _She-Wolf_. Or, more accurately, I suspect that it points the way towards whatever it is that is most important to me, in a moment. Which is, in this case, Sam."

Rather than spin back to point towards the ship, the needle duly swung around, pointing ahead.

"And so do I give credence to Master Jaeger's instincts, wherefore I intend to continue our pursuit," he finished, pausing only to give orders to unfurl some canvas, "For the Impala is swift, and can make good progress before necessity forces us to turn and ride this out."

"Well?" demanded Bobby, when Castiel returned to relay Dean's intentions.

"The _She-Wolf_ is ahead," Castiel answered, "And he is determined to close the distance between us as far as possible before conditions become unsailable."

"Well, they're pretty damned close to unsailable right now," snapped Bobby, bending down to give Chaddie, the ship's cat (who had mysteriously been hiding from the narrative until now because that's what cats do they come and go in their own good time and she was probably busy stalking Crowley's tail feathers most of the time anyway) a scritch behind the ears. "Have you been stalkin' Crowley again? You got green feather fluff in yer whiskers, missy."

Castiel gave him a small smile. "This is the _Impala_ , Bobby," he told the older man, "Commanded by Dean Winchester. If any ship can sail through weather like this, it is this one."

Bobby muttered and shook his head as the _Impala_ ran before the wind, pacing the storm.

Dean joined his officers on the quarterdeck. "We are closing on her," he shouted above the noise of wind and waves.

"She will already be attempting to hold her position, into the storm," Andrew stated. "Her Captain be prudent in such matters, and will not care about delay, so long as her vessel is safe."

"Then we have the advantage," Dean growled, "For the _Impala_ is faster, and can outmanoeuvre her."

"You cannot possibly be considering taking on the _She-Wolf_ in this," snapped Castiel, "Given what we know about her gun crews."

"Of course not!" Dean snarled back, "But we have an opportunity to pursue her unnoticed, then once the tempest has passed, we shall have the element of surprise. We shall sail as close as we dare, for the _Impala_ can turn into the wind much later to ride this out."

"The rate this storm is buildin', we may not have much longer," Bobby observed, "If you ask me, there's somethin' unnatural about it."

"I care not if the Devil himself has sent it," Dean told his officers, a corset-bustingly cocky devil-may-care glare on his handsome face, "If it will help me to rescue my brother Sam from the clutches of a ravening wolf woman determined to make him her slave, then by damnation I will use it!"

Sails on the main yard snapped and unfurled in the wind, and the _Impala_ surged on.

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Sam did not even realise that he was baring his teeth. "I really do not like this," he shouted, wincing as another wave broke across the pitching deck.

"I doubt any mariner does," Captain Shepherd shouted back, seemingly amused as she wrestled with the wheel.

"This storm, I mean," Sam clarified, shaking his head to clear water from his eyes, "It has progressed so quickly, and with such intensity."

"It happens, in the tropics," she yelled back, "We shall weather it, Lieutenant, then we shall make repairs as necessary, and..."

There was a sudden drawn-out groan and crack of splintering wood, then a sickening tearing and crash as one of the storm sails tore from its sheets, and took half the yard with it as it plunged to the deck.

"Take the wheel!" commanded Captain Shepherd, swearing a blue streak in her father's native tongue as she fumbled at her safety line.

"Bugger that," replied Sam, already out of his, "Hold your course, Captain!"

Moving as fast as he dared over the heaving deck, pausing to hold on as waves washed across it and threatened to take him overboard, he made his way to the broken tangle. In horror, he realised that there was an arm poking out from underneath it. Making a quick decision, he let go of the rigging, wound the end of a line around himself, then took hold of the end of the broken yardarm with both hands.

Cords standing out in his arms, chest heaving and magnificent lats latting, he gritted his teeth and lifted the wreckage off the body underneath it.

"Ah, well done, you," called a voice as its owner emerged, "My word, it's a good thing those women aren't here to see that, they'd all be going squee loud enough to rouse Neptune himself."

"Gabriel!" Sam bellowed in magnificent rage at the smaller man, "By the thrice-beshitten shroud of Lazarus, what the fuck are you doing out here?"

"Good grief, such language from one of His Majesty's Navy officers," tutted Gabriel, staggering to his feet. "We had run out of grog, the decent stuff, I mean, not that appalling dark rum that the captain is so fond of, and I just happened to know of a small stash for'ard, and so..." he waved two bottles and smiled winningly. "I shall decant some and bring it to you, if you like."

"Go below, idiot," Sam growled, standing up and stretching out his overtaxed muscles then running a hand through his soaked yet still magnificent man-mane, "Before you are truly injured."

"Oh, werewolves are robust creatures," Gabriel shrugged, "We can withstand abuse that would sorely wound a human, why, I believe I have escaped with naught but some bruises, but the brandy will help me to feel better..."

Sam let out a roar of anger, and Gabriel scuttled for the hatch. "They're right you know," he called back, "You are magnificent when you're angry!"

Grumbling to himself, Sam made a quick assessment of the damage, then returned to the captain.

"We must let it go overboard," he told her, ignoring the rebuke in her eyes, "The sail is torn and the timber a hazard, if left on board it will cause havoc as the storm deepens."

"Agreed," she snapped out, sending a crew member to fetch another werewolf to assist him, "This time you will wait for assistance, and that is an order, from the captain of the ship on which you now stand."

The howling of the wind was even louder by the time Douglas the carpenter arrived to help: chopping at the mess with axes, the narrative produced one more instance for the more depraved beldames amongst the readers to picture Sam's physique in action, biceps bunching and abs abbing, before they awkwardly heaved the tangle overboard.

By this time Captain Shepherd was clearly wrestling with the wheel. "It's the storm sail," she shouted above the gale, "Now we have lost one, the remaining one is pushing us to turn."

Sam put his hands to the wheel to help her, and felt the resistance. "The sail must be reefed," he told her, "Else we will be spun around like a leaf in an eddy."

"I will not ask anyone to man the yard in this!" she shouted, "Take the wheel, Lieutenant, I will cut it down myself from the mast, we will hold course and worry about the damage later!"

"I will do it," Sam countered, "I do not have the feel of the _She-Wolf_ the way you do, captain, her moods and peculiarities. You know I am right. I shall take all care, I promise."

"Very well. At least you will not have those relentless termagants attempting to look up your kilt," she she told him. "Take all care with your safety, Sam, if necessary, I shall have L'Orleano shoot the canvas out rather than risk anyone's life."

"This way, we may be able salvage the sail," Sam reminded her before heading for the main mast once more.

He climbed quickly, being long accustomed to doing so in all types of weather, and rapidly identified the lines that held the sail. Wielding the knife his brother had given him, he was about to cut them when a flash of something caught his eye out at sea. Blinking, he peered out into the foul weather.

A ship. His wolf's eyes spotted a ship. Sailing towards them, even through a raging storm.

More than that, he recognised her.

It was the _Impala_.

Laughing into the wind, he cut the storm sail free, and scrambled back to the deck, dodging nimbly around the tangle it made.

"A ship!" he yelled to the captain, "A ship! Captain, I believe it is the _Impala_!"

"What? Your brother?" Captain Shepherd's eyes bugged.

"Aye, Captain. I was raised aboard her. I would know her shape anywhere!" Sam declared.

Ronnie laughed heartily. "I shall cease to curse this storm," she smiled at him, "For though it might delay our voyage and damage my vessel, it will reunite you with your family. My, what capital luck! We shall hold position, and approach her under flag of parley as soon as the weather breaks." Her smile widened. "You are going home, Lieutenant."

The reality of an imminent reunion with his big brother made Sam's eyes sting suddenly. "I... I am grateful to you, Captain Shepherd," he stammered, "For everything. Though I know not how I shall explain to my brother that I am no longer fully human."

"I shall prepare the remedy for you myself," she assured him, "So that you may decide for yourself, at the appropriate time, whether you wish to..."

Her sentence was cut off by the whistle of heavy shot, then a loud crashing boom as a cannon ball punched into the _She-Wolf's_ hull.

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"She has failed to tack!" Castiel yelled above the shriek of the gale, "The _She-Wolf_ is attempting to hold her position."

"She has sighted us, then," Dean growled into the wind, fighting the wheel, his wet clothes clinging to him as water dripped from his handsomely scowling face, "No matter, she cannot outrun us now."

"We should seek to do the same, until the weather improves," Castiel told him, still looking through the spyglass, "If we tack into the wind now, we can do so before..."

The First Mate let out a horrified gasp. Dean did the same thing; he did not need a glass to see the flash of muzzle fire.

"What the fuck?" he swore, grabbing the glass from Castiel, whose face had turned white.

A vessel emerged briefly from the gloom ahead, then disappeared once more into the swirl of the storm.

"What the... some vessel approaches the _She-Wolf_ , and fires upon her! Castiel!" He shook his First Mate's shoulder. "Cas! What is the matter?"

"I know that vessel," Castiel's voice was barely audible. "It is the _Perdition_."

"Are you certain?" Dean asked doubtfully, "We had only but a glimpse of her. And I have heard of that name, aye, and her captain, too, a ruthless buccaneer they call Lucifer, for his disregard for his own safety and that of other human beings."

"I am certain, Dean," Castiel sounded desolate. "I need only a glimpse; I am certain."

"But how?" Dean persisted. "How can you know?"

"Because I know that ship," Castiel repeated. "And I know her captain. He is all they say, and more. And he is my brother."

* * *

Oh noes! Stand by for at least one Winchester In Peril! What is Dirty Miranda up to, the loony leporid? Feed that plot bunny reviews, and let's find out!


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

All hell broke loose on the deck of the _She-Wolf_ , as the crew swarmed up from below to take orders and assess the damage. Sam's jaw dropped in horror.

"We are under fire!" he yelled in surprised.

"No shit, Gigantor!" snarled Captain Shepherd, barking orders at her crew. "Curse your brother for a pirate and a fool!"

"But... it makes no sense!" Sam went on, "Why would he fire upon us?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," she growled, "Your brother has pursued this ship before – and we are clearly low in the water with cargo. God's death, is he mad?"

"No!" Sam yapped, "That is my point! My brother is not a fool, nor foolhardy, when it comes to the safety of his beloved _Impala_ , or his crew! Attempting to take a prize in such weather is madness, and he knows that!"

Miss Tsweetie the First Mate arrived at the captain's side. "Douglas is below, attempting to staunch the breach," she shouted over the wind, "But we cannot send someone overboard with canvas in this weather!"

"Absolutely not," agreed the captain, indicating that Miss Tsweetie should take the wheel, "Lieutenant, assist her with the rudder, for the _She-Wolf_ is fighting back in this swell! I must inspect the damage for myself – we may have no choice but to turn and run, as undesirable a course of action as that is right now..."

"Let me go for'ard!" Sam cut the captain off, a bold move for anyone aboard any ship, "Dean must be able to see us if he can aim cannon – if he sees me, he will cease fire!" With that, he started to head for the bow.

"Hell's teeth, Winchesters are clearly born mad!" Ronnie muttered, watching Sam make his way along the perilously listing deck awash with waves. "Lieutenant! Sam! Oh, you thundering _amadan_ , wait for me!"

Moving about the deck in the teeth of a gale was a dangerous business – Sam had to cling to the rigging as went, and once he was almost dragged overboard by the force of the water, and then again as another shot slammed into the hull. The _She-Wolf_ groaned in protest under him as he staggered, then caught himself against the gunwales, cursing and praying both at once. Finally, he reached his destination, and leaning into the wind as far as he dared whilst clutching at the forestay, began waving his other arm frantically.

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Dean could not help but for a moment be stunned. "Your... your brother?" he stuttered.

"It is a story for later," Castiel said sadly, his expression ravaged by devastation. "Know only that my brother quarrelled fiercely with my father and our oldest brother, Michael, and my father cast him out of our family, on account of his arrogance, and relish for meddling in unnatural things that man ought not wot of. He now follows his own desires and schemes, heedless of anything but what he wants. He behaved like a spoiled child under my father's roof, and continues to do so abroad in the world."

"Right now, he wants to sink the _She-Wolf_!" Dean snarled, "And my brother along with her! We will stop her!"

"Dean, we cannot run cannon out in this weather," Castiel begged, "We will ship water, and probably just wet our powder besides."

"The for'ard guns will manage," Dean said grimly, calling to the crew and issuing orders. "We will set more sail, and close with the _Perdition_!"

Castiel stared at him. "You cannot," he said flatly, "Any canvas will shred in this wind, and the crew cannot go aloft without imperilling themselves unto death..."

Dean gave him a feral smile, heedless of the water that dripped from his face, looking every inch the dangerous killer he could be when he or his were threatened. "I will not require my men to do anything I would not," he growled, "I will go aloft myself. Bobby! Take the wheel! Castiel, watch for our adversary; should you spot her again, make straight for the _Perdition_."

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"Save your effort, Lieutenant," Ronnie called to him as she clung to the foremast, "If he is as sensible as you say, he will be at the wheel, not emulating your ridiculous stunt in dangling off the bow! The _She-Wolf_ has no need of a new figurehead, Sam, as attractive as you would no doubt be, so come down from there at once, if only to avoid a flogging for blatant insolence and disobedience towards her captain!"

"If he sees me, he will stop!" Sam bellowed back, still waving.

"We must turn and run with the wind!" she screamed above the howling gale, "We are breached twice now, and must put the damage to windward, else we ship water and broach! It will be dangerous manoeuvre, but do it we must! For pity's sake, come aft, before you are washed away!"

"He will stop!" Sam stated firmly, "If he sees me, he will..."

The _She-Wolf_ dropped into a particularly deep trough, hitting a wall of water at the bottom and sending a wave surging over the bow. The whole ship shuddered, and with a drawn-out cracking groan that was audible over the storm, the top foremast gave way, and came crashing down in an avalanche of tangle rigging and splintering wood.

Ronnie screamed as she was briefly surrounded by a tangle of rat lines, then looked up to see the remains of the mast trailing into the heaving sea on the lee side.

Sam was gone with it.

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"The boy's insane!" Bobby shouted, "Completely insane! We can't make headway in this weather! He can't go aloft! GET YOUR SORRY ASS BACK DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT, YA IDJIT!"

"I already appraised him of the foolhardy nature of his plan," Castiel yelled back, "But he is adamant – he believes that his brother is in danger, and so he will stop at nothing to secure Sam's safety."

"What about his own safety?" demanded Bobby: they watched in horror as Dean scaled the main mast like a monkey, heedless of the weather.

"If he believes his brother's well-being is at stake, then his own means naught to him," replied Castiel, grim determination on his face, "This is madness. I shall get aloft myself, and drag him back down if needs must..."

The storm sails cracked taut in the wind, and the deck lurched under them as the _Impala_ put on more speed, skimming over the waves towards her prey.

"DEAN!" Bobby bellowed into the wind, knowing that his voice would likely be lost in the swirling spray and the crash of the sea, "Get back down here at once, you hear me, boy?"

Utterly unrepentant, balanced carefully and yet nonchalantly against the yard, Dean gave them a wave and a cocky grin, the began to make his way lightly back towards the mast.

There was a sudden lurch and crash as a wave hit from windward, causing the Impala to groan and roll violently to port.

Bobby and Castiel both let out cries of horror as they saw Dean pitched clean off the yard and overboard, to fall headlong into the pitiless ocean.

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During the Age of Sail, sailors faced many dangers: diseases caused by malnutrition or filth or parasites, sudden and endemic violence, and the ever-present threat of piracy or attack by a ship under another country's flag. But the most feared peril was stormy weather.

If a man was lost overboard in a storm, he was considered lost at sea, and dead. His chances of rescue were practically zero: a rescue effort was likely to endanger others, and if he had gone into the water as a result of damage to the vessel, then the whole crew's safety was endangered if the ship was not saved.

This was the terrible calculation, the dreadful algebra, that a ship's commander had to make in such situations.

The broken mast trailing its rigging over the bow of the _She-Wolf_ was causing her to list perilously to the damaged side – if she broached and took on water, she would sink with all hands. So Captain Veronica Aoire took the axe from its hook on the mast with steady hands, and began to hack at the tangle of wreckage endangering her ship.

She blinked back tears of grief and rage as she did so, but she did not falter until the whole mess was gone, and carried away by the sea, and her vessel and the rest of her crew were safe.

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Aboard the _Impala_ , Castiel began to issue orders to turn the vessel carefully into the wind, which would not only be the safest course for the ship, but would present the stern, the most robust part of the hull, in case the _Perdition_ changed course and fired upon them.

Bobby took the wheel, concentrating on the compass, and the necessity to keep the ship afloat – he had loved Dean like a son, and the grief would come later. The man he thought of as one of his boys was gone – the only safety measures against losing a crewman overboard that a captain could choose to deploy would be to trail long buoyant storm ropes behind the vessel, in the forlorn hope that a man might clutch onto one in the ship's wake, ere he was drowned, beaten to death by the swell, or overcome by injuries, exhaustion, and the insidious penetrating cold that even in clement latitudes would eventually overcome even a character played by an highly paid actor despite the fact that there had clearly been enough space for him on the very robust looking floating door.

Now in command of the vessel, Castiel caught a fleeting glimpse of the _Perdition,_ but once more, she disappeared back into the haze and fog as mysteriously as she had appeared.

The _She-Wolf_ rode out the storm into the wind, and once it had blown out its fury as suddenly as it had arisen, she tacked, and resumed her course.

With a heavy heart and grief threatening to overwhelm him, the acting skipper of the _Impala_ turned his attention to assessment of the storm's damage, and repairs.

It was the Age of Sail, and if a man was lost overboard, well, his chances of survival were about a million to one...

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The raging tempest subsided unexpectedly; as the swell dropped and the wind slackened and the gloom began to lift, the crew of the _She-Wolf_ set about preparations for repairs.

Unfortunately, the raging tempest that was Ronnie Shepherd's temper was just beginning to blow.

"It was not your fault," Doctor MacGregor told Captain Shepherd as she stalked back and forth in her cabin, "He endangered himself."

"He did so because he thought it would save the ship," Ronnie replied in angry misery. "I am sorely grieved to have lost such a fine young man. Oh, what was his brother thinking? Damn him to the pits of Hell for this! Had I the means I would see him swing from the main yard of his own ship!"

"He will have to live with the knowledge that he caused his brother's death," the doctor reminded her gently, "That will be punishment enough for a man like Dean Winchester."

"Not in my opinion," Ronnie growled, her canine fangs showing.

"Your opinion does not count," Ian told her sternly, "You are angry because the _Impala_ fired on your vessel..."

"Damned right I'm angry!" she snapped.

"Control your temper, madam!" Ian snapped back. "Recall your verse: 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord', and bear yourself in the face of misfortune as a decent Christian woman."

"Where was God when Sam Winchester went overboard to his death?" shouted Ronnie.

Doctor MacGregor was perhaps the only person aboard who would not be cowed by the captain's temper: rarely aroused to full fury, when she was irate she was truly frightening. "Wrath is a Capital Vice," her told her calmly. "I too grieve for the loss of the Lieutenant. The whole crew will, for he was well liked in the short time he was with us. They will look to you to for consolation, and you must be as a commander to your crew, not as a petulant child who pouts and flounces because she will not endure the travails and hardships of this mortal coil."

Ronnie let out a noise of impotent rage, then subsided. "I loathe and detest you when you are right," she growled eventually, her face becoming a picture of sadness. "As soon as we may, we shall formally commend him to God. Will you read the Burial Service, Doctor?" She offered him a sad smile. "You do it with great dignity and gravitas."

"It will be an honour to do so for him," the doctor assured her, "But for now, get you aloft, tend to your vessel and crew – I must check my patients, for we have had a number of injuries during..."

There was a call for the captain, and Ronnie hurried onto the deck.

"Man on the ropes!" Miss Tsweetie told her urgently, pointing aft, "A man on the storm ropes!"

Hope blooming in her heart, Ronnie ran aft, where crew members were hauling in one of the long trailing lines. At the very end, clinging to the last cork float, was the figure of a disheveled man.

"Get him aboard!" she shouted to the men waiting on the boarding net, "Fetch the doctor! Fetch blankets, and grog!"

The inert body was manhandled up the net and onto the deck, where it sprawled, shivering, and, miraculously, began to cough.

"He's alive!" exclaimed First Mate Miss Tsweetie, "God knows how, but he is alive!"

Bitterly disappointed that it was clearly not Sam, Ronnie nonetheless bent down to wrap a blanket around the shivering figure herself. As she did so, a handsome face, fulsome lips blue with the cold but a careless smile on them nevertheless, turned up to regard her.

She felt a snarl break out on her face.

"The doctor is here!"

Doctor MacGregor dropped to his knees to examine his latest patient. "This man is suffering at the very least from hypothermia," he announced crisply.

"Get him below, at once," ordered Ronnie, rising to her feet with anger in her voice, "For I want him to live."

"Of course, Captain," the doctor began, "I do not see any obvious injuries, so provided he is not..."

"That is not what I meant," she smiled coldly. "Do none of you recognise the scent? I do." She gave the new arrival a long, appraising look. "And before my very eyes, I do believe this is Dean Winchester."

"That's Captain Dean Winchester." "The man sprawled on the deck smirked with the most infuriating grin that she had ever seen, and, amazingly, staggered to his feet, looking awesomely attractive with his wet clothing clinging revealingly to the lines of his body even as he shivered. "Am I addressing Mistress Ronnie Shepherd, who styles herself a skipper? For truly, you do live up to your reputation, and if you be not her, then, I can only marvel that two women of such unprepossessing visage should walk God's Creation."

"The very same," she purred with icy politeness. "Welcome aboard the _She-Wolf_."

"I am glad to make your acquaintance," he went on, cocksure with confidence oozing from his voice, "Although I had hoped it to be under other circumstances."

"So had I, Dean Winchester, so had I," Ronnie bared her teeth. "And now," she addressed her crew, "This man has been pulled from the sea. Get him below, get him dry and warm, fetch him clean clothes, and grog and vittles, if he wishes to take them."

"That is kind of you," Dean's grin didn't waver in cockiness, "But I am not here to..."

When she turned back to him, the anger radiated from her so fearsomely that he was stunned into silence as she completed her orders.

" _Then clap him in irons and throw him in the brig!"_

* * *

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. Winchesters in peril. All we need now is for Dean to make some snarky remark about Mistress Amanda, proprietor of his favourite House of Ill Repute in London, and it could all get quite interesting... what will Ronnie do with him? Where is Sam? Has Crowley learned to say anything civil yet? Feed Dirty Miranda, the swashbucklingest plot bunny on FFN, lovely nautical reviews and maybe she'll tell us!


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

The moment he hit the water, Sam knew he was in serious trouble.

No, belay that – the moment he hit the water, he knew he was dead.

Well, as good as dead. He had been a strong swimmer when he was human, and now as a werewolf he would live longer than a human man in the icy pounding swell, but inevitably, going overboard in a storm was a death sentence.

Intellectually he knew that, but his body could not help but fight to stay afloat and alive: coughing and spluttering as waves broke over him and forced him under to the point where he could barely hold his breath until next he broke the surface, and battered by the water and the flotsam around him, Sam clung to a floating piece of wood, the instinct to survive strong, and fought for his life.

It was a brave fight, and a valiant fight, but ultimately the sea, the endless ocean, would have its way. Gradually, the cold seeped into his flesh, and seemed to penetrate his very bones, and it became more and more difficult to hold his head out of the water, and eventually, inevitably, his grip on the broken spar lost strength, then loosened, then dwindled to nothing.

Completely exhausted, he didn't even notice when the water slammed him against something solid with a bone-jarring crash.

His last thought was one of terrible sadness, thinking of how his brother would react to the news of his death, then his eyes closed and he let go.

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Dean took in everything he could see, keeping his eyes open for any trace of his brother, as he was escorted below by two men large of physique and dour of visage – if he was to rescue Sam, he would require the element of surprise, so he did not resist: he would play the drained and exhausted victim, then find his brother, and get them both away and back to the _Impala._ Preferably scuttling the _She-Wolf_ behind them.

The doctor, an unexpectedly civilised fellow with the manner of a gentleman, pronounced him cold and bruised, but otherwise healthy as he sipped on some dark rum that the older man assured him was the captain's personal drink of choice.

"Aieeeee!"

"I beg your pardon, Captain Winchester – I should have warned you, my hands are cold. The crew complain of it incessantly."

"Actually, I was reacting to this rum. Whence comes it?"

"It is from the Antipodes, I believe, from a strange land where giant rabbits hop around on their back legs, every single living creature is venomous and belligerent, and the men play bizarre combative sports that nobody in the civilised world may comprehend and they wear nothing but hats festooned with corks dangling from strings about the brim, whilst they live on meat pies, and drink beer that is brewed as strong as brandy."

"Perchance I shall visit there someday," mused Dean, "Are the women comely?"

"I have no further knowledge of the place, beyond hearsay," Doctor MacGregor shrugged, "Although 'tis rumoured that the women play the strange sports even more viciously than the men, and bake unusual sweet comestibles that resemble bricks with dandruff, declaring it the national dish."

"Well, fancy," muttered Dean, as bemused as any person who had never heard of nor encountered a lamington cake before, as indeed European civilisation would not for a number of centuries and even then would often not know what to make of the odd antipodean confection, "I must ask Mistress Shepherd for details of her supplier."

"Captain Shepherd," the doctor corrected him serenely, "She is master and commander aboard the _She-Wolf_ , make no mistake – should you have any lingering prejudices about the nature of 'the weaker sex', I caution that it would behoove you to suspend them forthwith."

"Indeed," Dean nodded judiciously, maintaining his intention to keep what he knew to himself until he could ascertain the whereabouts of his brother and formulate a plan, "She is indeed a frightening prospect when angry – I have heard tales of a she-captain who can terrify a man into stupefaction just by sneering at him. Why, I received the distinct impression that she is angry with me."

"Wherefore you ought to treat carefully with her," Ian cautioned, "I fear in her current disposition, she is of a mind to have you flogged – nay, she would wield the lash herself."

"It is most strange," Dean opined, "For upon a first meeting, myself I usually have the exact opposite effect upon the wea... that is, upon women – forsooth, I do recall a chance meeting when..."

Before Dean could launch into one of his appalling Feisty Women With Whom I Have Dallied stories, with particular mention of Mistress Amanda of the bath house _Nevada_ and her most distinctive talents in the field of negotiable affection and who could teach the sternest Quartermaster of His Majesty's Navy a thing or two about lashing a man to the mast, they heard a cheerful female voice approaching.

"Coming through! Coming through!"

Ian sighed. "Dean Winchester, may I introduce you to Becky, the cabin girl..."

"I have brought you some clothes, Captain Winchester!" the slight young woman beamed as she barged into the cabin, but her face fell when she saw Dean. "Oh."

"Oh?" echoed Dean.

Becky regarded him critically. "You're... shorter than I was expecting," she pronounced in a thwarted tone. "This is quite... disappointing. Compared to..."

"Thank you, Becky," the doctor accepted the clothes, then pushed her back out the door before she could say anything further. There was a short squawk and a brief splash as one of the men guarding the door pushed her overboard.

"Cabin girl?" Dean's eyes bugged, "Did you say, cabin _girl_?"

"For our sins," the doctor replied in a resigned tone.

"But that is patently ridiculous!" Dean scoffed. "No female could possibly serve as a cabin 'boy', attendant to the captain's needs and requirements!"

"I would be more inclined to rephrase that as 'Becky could not possibly serve any useful purpose aboard ship, or ashore for that matter'," Ian ruminated.

I question your 'captain's' sanity," Dean tutted. "No captain of sound mind would employ a cabin girl. 'Tis completely foolish, and only a complete ass would do so."

"Yet I have heard tell of women who do go to sea in such roles, playing the part of a boy, as though taking a 'pants part' in a play or opera," Ian commented.

"Tosh," sniffed Dean, "For no woman could pass for a boy on board ship, unless the captain was blind or incompetent."

After that, he dressed, and when the Doctor's back was turned, quickly lifted the ornate silver letter opener that he had espied upon the man's cluttered desk, secreting it about his person. "And now, I fear that in accordance with the Captain's orders, to the brig you must go," Doctor MacGregor told him.

"Twill not be the first time," Dean replied breezily. "In truth, I am battered and weary, and would be content to lie down anywhere flat, right now."

"You will find it more accommodating than such quarters aboard other ships," the doctor assured him, "And I shall prepare a restorative cordial for you. Farewell for now, Dean Winchester."

With that, he was, as per the captain's orders, clapped in irons and thrown into the brig.

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Under the circumstances, it took Sam longer to wake up than it might have, but the bunk he was in was comfortable, he was warm, and the rocking of deep water sailing entwined with the background noises of a ship under sail were as a lullaby to him, as he had grown up with them and was used to being lulled to sleep by the movement of a vessel at sea and the creaking of well-caulked timbers.

When he finally did open his eyes, wincing at the daylight and the aching all over his body, he experienced a moment of disorientation – it was not the bunk that he had been assigned aboard the _She-Wolf_ , and he wondered if he was back in the captain's cabin, or under the care of the doctor once more...

Recollection came crashing back in, and he gasped aloud. He'd been washed overboard when the top foremast collapsed, snapped like a twig under the hurricane winds, but he'd managed to gain a tenuous hold on a piece of broken spar, and then, after that...

Gritting his teeth against the discomfort, he raised himself on one elbow and looked around, nostrils flaring. He was not aboard the _She-Wolf_ , and he was most certainly not aboard the _Impala_ , either, for in that case his brother would already be there, at his side, like a mother hen attending to a wounded chick. Wherever he was, there was something decidedly... _wrong_. It set his senses on edge, yet he knew not why.

With an inward sigh, he realised that, once more, he found himself in a most unseemly state of complete undress.

"You are awake, then." The voice was unfamiliar: engaging, yet mocking, mild, but somehow full of menace. It came from a figure sitting in the corner of the cabin.

Sam's head snapped around, and he regretted it instantly. "Who are you?" he asked suspiciously. "What is this ship?"

"Not one for social niceties, are you, Mister Campbell?" The figure moved into the light. Sam saw that it was an older man, in seaman's dress, who was suffering from some unfortunately skin disease, for the sores and tetters on him disfigured a face that might otherwise have been moderately handsome. His voice and bearing were those of a senior officer aboard ship. His air of easy arrogance suggested _Captain_ to Sam's nautical instincts.

Sam took a firm hold on his startling impulse to snarl, reminding himself of his manners, and that he was himself an officer, representing His Majesty's Navy, wherever he might be. "My apologies, sir," he said, "I am... confused. But I owe you my life, it seems, and therefore should offer you gratitude, not blunt rudeness."

"A most interesting capacity for civility, in a Scot," the other man chuckled – somehow, it was not a friendly sound. "Although you have perhaps been removed from the more barbaric elements of your culture for some time, from the manner of your speech."

"I am no Scot, sir," Sam replied politely, "And though my mother was a Campbell, my name is Winchester."

"And so I must apologise to you," the other man sat down, "For I did but make that assumption upon the nature of your dress." He cocked his head curiously, a gesture that seemed strangely familiar to Sam. "Or what was left of it – unfortunately you were thrown against our hull a number of times berfore you could be retrieved, and the barnacles did for your kilt as they will do for the skin of a man being keelhauled. How comes a well-spoken man such as yourself to be a seaman aboard a buccaneer? Are you an escaped pressed man, Mister Winchester, or a mutineer?"

Sam bit down on his temper. "Indeed I am not!" he spat, "I am Lieutenant Samuel Winchester, of His Majesty's Royal Navy, lately of the _Stanford_ – I was rescued from certain death by the kindness of that ship's crew which you do much malign by the appellation 'buccaneer'."

The other man looked genuinely confused. "Then how do you come to be wearing naught but a kilt, Lieutenant?" he asked with authentic curiosity.

Sam's face fell into a picture of resignation. "It is... a long story," he sighed.

"Then perhaps we shall have discourse when you are more recovered," the other decided, standing up, and thereby indicating that for the nonce discourse was done, "I shall leave you to rest."

"Thank you, Captain." From the man's gratified expression, Sam could see that he had guessed the man's rank correctly. "Please offer my thanks to the members of your crew who risked their own necks to save mine. Oh, er, before you depart, there is a small matter with which I would ask your assistance..."

The captain cocked an eyebrow eloquently.

"There is the matter of suitable attire," Sam said firmly, "I am, as you well know, without seemly coverage, so might I impose upon your goodwill further, and..."

"Oh, that is in hand," the captain interrupted him, "For a most strange thing befell as soon as you were brought aboard. A trio of peculiar women came paddling along on what looked like a large wooden door, claiming to be seagoing haberdashsers, and insisted upon coming aboard also. I have set them to making appropriate garments for you, but they work terribly slowly, I would swear, in the last hour, they have managed not more than half a dozen stitches between them, for they claim that they can make no useful progress if not permitted to attend you and take sundry measurements, I know not what of, 'tis best that men do not intrude upon secret women's business and the mysteries of their crafts..."

"Is one of them named Becky?" Sam asked anxiously.

"No. But one of them is named LeeLiz, and did sing to a crewman named Brady until he flung himself overboard – my word, how we all did laugh..."

"Then perhaps I should be grateful for small mercies," Sam noted philosophically.

"Adieu for now, Lieutanant." The captain made for the door, but Sam forestalled him.

"Captain! A moment, please. I do not know the identity of my rescuer, or his ship."

The disfigured face turned to him with a smile that made Sam want to bare his teeth. "Ah, an oversight on my part. Welcome aboard the _Perdition_ , Lieutenant. My name is Godson, but more usually, my officers, my crew, nay, seafarers at large are in the habit of styling me Lucifer. Give you good day."

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The strange yet cultured doctor had been right, Dean thought, the brig was of a much more comfortable and spacious nature than any other with which he had unfortunately been acquainted – it was light, airy and clean, and the cell in which he found himself was larger than any prisoner might expect.

He made himself comfortable in the hammock provided, and considering his next move as he toyed with his strange compass. He may have dozed somewhat, but came suddenly to alertness when somebody sat up in the cell at the end, and yawned extravagantly.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn't realise I had company," the smaller man greeted him cordially. "Good day to you. You must be the one who was pulled from the sea. Neptune's balls, man, but some god watches over you."

"Good day to you," Dean replied, sitting up and regarding his fellow detainee curiously. "So, what have you done to anger the she-captain?"

"Oh, I am not out of the good graces of the Old Woman," his companion said cheerfully. "Well, no more than usual."

Dean regarded him dubiously. "You are a member of the crew?"

"Oh yes," the other man nodded, "I am indispensable, that is to say, the captain frequently threatens to dispense with me, but yet I remain aboard. I am useful with languages. I am Gabriel, translator, courtier to Lord Bacchus, and stickynose at large."

"Dean," Dean replied, deciding to give away as little intelligence as possible to this strange individual, "But you must have done something to displease her, ere you would not be confined in the brig."

"Oh, I am not confined," chortled Gabriel, getting up and waving a key, with which he let himself out of his cell. "I placed myself here, when we were fired upon." He waved a bottle. "Drink?"

"Provided it be not that rum that your captain favours," snorted Dean. "Wherefore did you seek to place yourself in the brig?"

"I was hiding," Gabriel admitted shamelessly, strolling to Dean's cell and passing him a bottle of what turned out to be very good brandy. "For we came under fire, and anticipated an attack. I don't like fighting. I'd much rather run away."

"To the brig?"

Gabriel shrugged. "It is quiet, and this is the last place that anybody would be sought. Unless someone seeks me, in which case it is the first place they come to look. Mayhap it would behoove me to find another bolt hole, yet inevitably the Old Woman will sniff me out herself..." he suddenly stopped, as if thinking he had said something he should not have uttered out aloud.

"My father was like that," Dean smiled and pretended not to notice, "When I was but a boy, I could secrete myself anywhere aboard ship, and with an unerring instinct, and usually his belt in his hand for I had committed some childish transgression, he would hunt me down and locate me, my feeble attempts at concealment for naught." He sighed, and showed the other man a hopeful expression. "I do not suppose that I could avail upon your charity to let me out of here?"

"I dare not, fearing for my body and my soul," Gabriel replied seriously, "For the captain would be most displeased with me, and Mother Church teaches us that a deliberate act of self-destruction paves the way to eternal damnation."

"Fie, you cannot fear a woman so," Dean scoffed, "Even one so unwomanly as Shepherd. What fear you she will do, slap you with her fan?"

"It will not profit you to underestimate the captain of the _She-Wolf_ ," the smaller man intoned ominously, "Make no mistake, she holds her rank without question, and claims all authority, rights and dues that flow therefrom. Her temper, once roused, can be a fearsome thing; she would storm the gates of Hell to assist those she thinks of as her own, but cross her, and she will put stripes on your back herself, and smile as she does it – and that is if you are lucky."

"A most peculiar woman, this she-pirate," mused Dean. "In faith, I am accustomed to my presence having an entirely different effect on the weake-... on ladies."

"Captain Shepherd is no lady." It was the voice of the doctor who had treated him earlier. His expression was one of resignation. "But she is in command aboard this vessel." He proffered a dark glass bottle. "I have prepared your cordial, with brandy rather than rum," he went on. "She has ordered that you join her to dine this evening."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Dine? To hear this fellow describe her, one might suspect that she does not 'dine' at table, but contents herself to tear a limb from a passing crew member, and eat it raw."

"Not unless that person has committed some grievous wrong 'gainst her or her ship," the doctor replied serenely as he appeared out of the darkness, "Have a care, Captain Winchester, for Gabriel is, for a change, correct – Veronica Aoire is in command, and will brook no disrespect. And there is, after all, quite a lot of lean meat on you."

* * *

And so we will find out, can Dean and Ronnie have a civil conversation in this AU - or is it a universal constant that they will get up each other's noses? What is Lucifer up to? Will Sam ever get a respectable pair of trousers? Feed Dirty Miranda the piratical plot bunny lovely nautical reviews and let's find out!


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

After the turn of the glass for the first dog watch, Dean's escort returned and, as per the captain's orders, struck off his irons and bid him follow them above and aft. He thanked them politely, and did as he was bid.

The captain's cabin beneath the castle reminded him very much of his own quarters: it was unexpectedly sparse and neat, with all squared away in a practical and seamanlike manner. Wherever Captain Shepherd had learned her habits, they were from a meticulous mariner with an eye for order.

The captain herself stood by one of the stern windows, in conversation with Doctor MacGregor. A watchful expression formed on her face as she stepped forward to greet him. "Captain Winchester," she said with politeness, if not actually cordiality.

"Captain Aoire," he returned the courtesy, and had the satisfaction of watching her surprised face when he pronounced her unanglicised name perfectly. "I thank you for your invitation to dine, if not for the earlier reception."

"I would speak with you," she told him, "And it is my preference to hold discourse in a civilised fashion and in agreeable surroundings where possible."

"An admirable sentiment," he noted.

"I shall take my leave, then," the doctor offered both of them a small bow, and a stern glance that Dean was sure he had seen on his own father's face many times: _You two behave yourselves whilst I am not here._

"Come in, and seat yourself, Captain Winchester," Ronnie invited when the doctor was gone. "Fear not, I will not eat you."

"Are you quite certain?" he asked earnestly.

"Quite certain," she confirmed with a small smile, "For I know not where you have been."

Dean glanced at the table, which was set only for two. "Will no others be joining us?" he asked.

"I would prefer to speak to you alone on a certain matter," she replied shortly.

He found he could not help himself. "Not even a chaperone?" he smirked. "To dine with a man you know not?"

"Oh?" she turned to face him squarely, expression completely guileless. "Be it needful? Do you fear that you will be so smitten by my beauty, so bespelled by my boundless pulchritude, so overwhelmed by my womanly charms, that you will not be able to prevent yourself from ravishing me?"

"Perhaps needful for me then," he went on, unrepentant, "In order to keep me safe from the ravening predations of the mannish rampant pirate queen who abducts hapless victims to her own dark and depraved nefarious purposes."

"Ha!" That idea seemed to amuse her genuinely if the grin on her face was any indication. "Sailors do tell such tall tales, they ought to go ashore and write to publish, for their outlandish fictions would surely earn them more coin than a life at sea. Oh yes, I am well aware of the stories that circulate about this ship, her captain, and her crew. In frankness, I believe that Gabriel concocted many of them out of sheer mischief. The one about me abducting handsome and pleasingly buff young men to chain to my bunk clad in nothing but a collar and an expression of outrage for my personal erotic disportment is probably my favourite."

Dean's eyes slid to the bunk, where he surreptitiously looked for signs of recent young male sex slave chaining and erotic disportment.

"But," she went on with a smile that he could only think of as, well, wolfish. "By all means, if you think that there be a soul aboard who would be capable of preventing me from besting you, Dean Winchester, pray nominate him. If you could persuade him to venture so foolhardy a mission. No, if I have any womanly honour, I protect it myself."

"And thus you are prepared to trust me with a knife in your presence?" he pressed, indicating the sparse but serviceable setting of the table.

"Clearly," she shrugged, "I promise you, no man could do me any harm with a little fruit peeler such as that."

"I expect you are right," he agreed.

Captain Shepherd would later, privately, declare herself impressed by what happened next.

One moment, Dean was nodding in agreement about the harmlessness of the knives on the table; the next, moving like a striking snake, he was across the cabin, barrelling into her, pinning her bodily against the wall with the silver letter opener at her throat. He had the grim satisfaction of seeing a small welt raise on her skin where the metal grazed it.

"Those blades, no," he growled as he loomed over her, top lip quivering in anger, "But this one will kill you, she-wolf. Now, tell me what you have done with my brother Sam, else I will bury it in your throat, and tear your ship apart to find him, you bitch!"

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Sam did not fancy taking a stroll aboard a strange ship in naught but the skin God had given him – such an exercise was completely uneventful and would go unnoticed and unremarked aboard the _She-Wolf_ (well, except for the trio of adoring admirers he had acquired, plus Becky the cabin girl), but he was now aboard the _Perdition_.

Like many mariners, he had heard strange tales of the ship, in much the same way he had heard tell of the _She-Wolf_ ; intellectually, he determined to harbour no prejudices against ship, captain or crew until he could make an informed and rational judgement for himself upon the evidence before him.

At a deeper level, some way beneath rational thought, there was something about the Captain that make him edgy. He caught his own reflection in the small glass, and was startled to realise that his teeth were bared, and he was growling.

Sam shook himself mentally: some instinct was telling him that he should not reveal the bestial aspect of his nature to his new host, but keep it hidden, the way he might keep an unseen weapon secreted about his person were he to venture into an insalubrious part of a town...

"Good morning Lieutenant!" A cheerful voice called. With a resigned sigh, Sam resisted the urge to utter a little scream as the three aforementioned naughty ladies came bustling into the cabin.

"Good morning, shameless viragos," he greeted them, "What moral outrage are you intent upon perpetrating against me this fine morn?"

"Ranger has prepared vittles that you might break your fast," announced LeeLiz sunnily, as Ranger put down a tray on the table and dropped a small curtsey, "Whist MarieLee and I have finished your new trousers!"

"They will not, unfortunately, be as tailored to your specifications as we would like," MarieLee added regretfully, "But they will, also unfortunately, provide you with seemly coverage, and allay your most acceptable situation of trouserlessness."

"And not before time," Sam grumbled, taking the proffered garment, "The situation is not acceptable to me, pervy wenches. Would it be ridiculously optimistic for me to hope that a shirt might be forthcoming also?"

"Yes, yes it would," agreed LeeLiz sunnily.

He suppressed a sigh as the three of them continued to stare at him with beaming smiles. "Er, is there something else with which I may assist you?"

"Oh, we just want to see how your trousers fit," supplied LeeLiz.

"More specifically, we wish to see you don them," added Ranger.

"Away with you all, relentlessly and shamelessly naughty ladies!" he dictated in his best voice of command, "I am not here to provide leering beldames with inappropriate sport!"

"Oh, go on," wheedled LeeLiz,

"No," he snapped, "Now cease and desist forthwith, if not sooner, and depart at once! Hie you back to your needlework, and prepare me a shirt with all speed and minimal naughtiness!"

With disappointed noises they left him to don his trousers in peace. They were more form-fitting than he was used to, but he did the naughty ladies the charity of choosing to believe that it was because they had not taken exact measurements beforehand.

Still feeling ill at ease but determined not to show it, he headed out on deck.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Dean saw Captain Shepherd grit her teeth and hiss at the sting of silver against her bare skin, but nonetheless she smiled up at him. "You are appraised of my true nature, then," she noted with another wince, "How well informed you are, Captain Winchester."

"More than you know, monster," he growled dangerously.

"Perhaps, but still not enough," she said in a voice that bordered on teasing. "Tell me, Captain Winchester, have you any children?"

"That is neither here nor there!" he snapped, pressing the blade closer.

"Oh, but it is most pertinent at this moment," she practically purred.

Dean let out a stifled squeak as he felt a most delicate touch south of his equator.

The hand holding the blade did not waver as his eyes travelled downwards, but his eyes bugged at what he saw.

Ronnie's hand was transformed into a massive shaggy paw. From each digit there extended a wicked-looking four-inch claw.

One of them was tapping ever so gently at two of his most prized possessions.

"A most astonishing trick, is it not?" she rumbled quietly. "Control of the form is not an ability common to my kind, but with enough practice and force of will, it can be learned. You may attempt to spill my blood, Winchester, but I promise you, do that, and my parting gift will be to leave you fit for the castrati choir of the Pope himself, if you do not fall down and bleed to death beside me. If my pack does not tear you to pieces."

The murderous expression that formed on Dean's face made him look unspeakably dangerous and bodice-burstingly handsome. Any other woman would have swooned.

Ronnie just grinned.

It was only finely honed combat instincts that alerted Dean to the presence behind him; almost too quick to see, he turned and buried the silver blade in whoever was attempting to steal up behind him unnoticed.

Doctor MacGregor looked down at the hilt projecting from his chest, and sighed.

"I did wonder where that had gone," he said, reaching down to withdraw it from himself, "Oh, now look at that, and this shirt was one of my best. Incidentally, should you attempt to punch through his spine and pull out his heart, idiot child, I shall be forced to remonstrate with you myself."

"I would not dream of it," protested Ronnie, lowering her arm, her flexed claws disappearing as her hand resumed its human shape.

"In that case, 'twould be meet that you sue your face for slander," noted the doctor.

"He started it," she muttered resentfully.

Dean's eyes were nearly starting from his head. "What manner of monster are you?" he cried.

"He be a Presbyterian," Ronnie replied, voice infused with dread. "Dire terrible creatures, those."

"Says she who partakes of what she believes to be transformed human flesh and blood at Mass," chuckled Ian, "What manner of creature seeks actually, literally, to eat God?"

"Are all who sail aboard this cursèd vessel abominations not of this earth?" Dean demanded, looking about for a weapon.

"Oh, for pity's sake," snapped the doctor, "Calm yourself, man – you are aware of our captain's nature, be it so strange to think that others like yet not like her may walk this world? Yet we are capable of human thought, human reason, and human _manners_." On the last word, he glared at them both.

Ronnie Shepherd cleared her throat. "Captain Winchester, if you will refrain from trying to kill me, I shall do likewise, and shall give you guarantee and promise of your safety aboard this ship," she said, her expression becoming serious. "And we will speak of your brother. Please, sit, and we will eat. Food prepared in the galley, by the cook, well, our new cook, we have lost our own, but fortunately for us another did come paddling along in an amazingly large pot, claiming to be a seagoing chef, most definitely female though her name be George, and she has so far proved herself most capable..."

"What of my brother?" interrupted Dean. "I heard tell in London that his ship was attacked by yours."

"That is not true," Ronnie shot back, "Indeed, 'twere t'other way around: the _Stanford_ and the _Chevrolet_ closed with us, fired upon us, and attempted to take us as a prize, curse their commanders for greedy wretches and the demise of many men."

"But you sank them both!" insisted Dean.

"In self-defence, and in desperation!" Ronnie told him. "The _She-Wolf_ does not start fights, Captain Winchester, but by thunder if a fight is brought to me I will finish it! We be not pirates, and seek to make an honest living as a merchantman. But I will not sacrifice the lives of my crew to save those who would rob us and send us to the bottom! Would you not return fire, under such circumstances?" She paused, and scrubbed a hand over her face, apparently experiencing some distress at the thought.

"What of my brother?" Dean demanded, "My brother Sam? Did you take him?"

"Aye, we pulled him from the wreckage, ere he could go down with his ship," she assured him, "And brought him aboard."

"THEN WHERE IS HE?" thundered Dean.

His heart lurched when he saw the stricken expression form on the other captain's face. "Captain Winchester – Dean – please sit down with me," she said quietly.

Feeling his knees shake, he did as she asked while she took the other chair. "What?" he spat. "What is it?"

"We took your brother aboard," she told him, "We... saw him restored to health. He was well liked and respected aboard, a capable seaman, a personable young man, the crew took to him as one of their own..."

"Where – is – he?" Dean repeated flatly.

Ronnie took a deep breath, and he saw that there were tears welling in her eyes. "He was lost to us," she said simply. "In the recent storm. He was trying to signal you after he sighted the _Impala_ , but when the top foremast collapsed, he was carried overboard. Capta-... Dean, I am so sorry. Your brother, Sam, is dead."

* * *

Oh noes! Peril has barely abated for our seagoing Winchesters! Will Dean and Ronnie make it through dinner without a punch-on? Will Sam ever get a shirt? The questions! The melodrama! The purple pirate prose! The plague of exclamation marks! Send reviews to feed to Dirty Miranda the plot bunny, and let us sail on towards more adventure (and possibly further GWN)!


	20. Chapter 20

Gooooo Dirty Miranda! Look, another chapter...

Oi, you! Yes, you, the one who's just clicked onto this chapter without reviewing the last one. Go back at once! No fair skipping chapters in a state of unseemly reviewlessness, whilst poor Miranda labours late into the night, slaving over a hot keyboard. Go on, we'll still be here when you get back.

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty**

Sam headed out onto the deck of the _Perdition_ , and knew not what to think: there was something in the very air that made him feel decidedly on edge, and yet under that was a strange impression of... familiarity, as if this was not the first time he had set foot aboard this vessel. The wind was fresh, and the ship was heeling slightly with the wind, sailing across it.

The crew were about the business of running a ship at sea. He espied Captain Godson at the helm, and made to join him. As he did so, he was approached by a crew member, who proved to be a woman.

"Give you good day, madam," he said politely.

The smile she gave him was not at all suitable for a crew member to offer to an officer of His Majesty's Navy. "Good day, Lieutenant," she said in a voice that was not at all polite, and would probably have been more appropriate coming from one of the ladies of negotiable affection who plied their trade at the _Nevada_ , "Neptune has surely smiled on you to see you plucked from Death's embrace to join us. Or," she chuckled, "Perhaps he smiles upon us."

"I give thanks to God, and to the officers and crew of this ship, for my deliverance," Sam told her carefully, thinking her a most forward creature and wondering what on earth he had done to offend the Almighty so that wherever he went there were women determined to gaze upon him in manners unseemly.

"So do I, oh, so do I," the woman grinned up at him, "For what else should we do, having been sent such a token of His affection in the form of a most marvellously muscled mariner with much manliness and magnificent man-mane..."

With that appalling bit of alliteration, she reached up to run a hand across the inviting planes of his broad and irresistibly fanserviceable chest.

Before he could think, Sam reacted, snarling as he grabbed at the offending hand, not caring that she squeaked in astonishment and then pain. "Unhand me, wretch!" he snarled, feeling bones grind against each other in his grip as corded muscle stood out in his arm, "What is your name, then?"

"Ruby, sir!" shrieked the woman, "I am Ruby!"

Sam loomed over her, then bent down to bare his teeth at her cowering face. "Well, Ruby," he growled dangerously, "I suggest that you keep your hand to yourself from now on, lest I be offended unto tearing it right off. Do I make myself clear?"

"Aye sir!" Ruby howled, "I am sorry, sir!"

In a sudden instant, Sam realised that he was frightening and injuring a woman; with a gasp, he let go of her hand as if it was hot iron, and attempted to compose himself. "You wear seaman's dress," he noted, "You are a member of this crew?"

"Aye, sir," she replied warily, cradling her hand.

"Then be about your duties," he instructed her, looking around at other members of the crew, who had paused to watch. He found that this inexplicably angered him again. "Well?" he snapped at them, glaring about and daring any to meet his eye, corset-bustingly magnificent in his anger. "Is it your habit to stand idle like a group of witless idiots whilst at sea? Will the ship sail herself? Be about your duties, all of you!" He looked up at the rigging. "And secure that sheet properly before somebody has a limb broken! There is no room for slovenly seamanship under sail!"

Touching their caps and muttering compliance, the crew turned back to their tasks as he made his way to the captain's side without being further molested.

Captain Godson was grinning as he looked out over the water. "Give you good day, Lieutenant," he said cheerfully.

"Good day, Captain," Sam replied. "I thank you for the use of your quarters, but expect to be bunked elsewhere, now that I am recovered."

"Indeed," the older man replied nonchalantly.

After a drawn out silence during which there was clearly nothing further forthcoming, Sam cleared his throat. "Captain, I... apologise for man-handling your crew member, the woman named Ruby," he stumbled, "I was startled by her forward manner – truly, I am not in the habit of threatening women..."

"You did not threaten her, lad," Captain Godson interrupted with a bark of laughter, "I would say, you gave her fair and proper warning. Had you broken her neck and tossed her overboard for taking such liberties, I would not have stood in judgement of you."

Sam was somewhat taken aback. "Nonetheless, I apologise for my actions – it is not my wish or intent to assume to myself any authority aboard your ship, where I am merely an unexpected imposition upon your hospitality. I cannot think why I came to act as I did."

"I believe I can." The blotched face turned towards Sam, regarding him thoughtfully. "You are naturally fitted for command."

"What? Me?" Sam was genuinely surprised. "Nay, Captain, I am just a Lieutenant, only but recently passed my board to the satisfaction of the Admiralty, it will be many years before I have enough experience and knowledge to be considered for a commander's position aboard a modest Navy vessel..."

"I do not speak of those inbred chinless fops who pay more attention to their uniforms than they do to their ships," the captain sneered angrily, "The majority of whom are promoted not according to their capability, but to whose family they belong. Do not give me that look, Lieutenant, you know whereof I speak, you have seen it happen with your own eyes. You have worked hard to attain your place as other need not do because of their connections, gaining your standing by your own intelligence and hard work."

Sam tried wipe the scowl off his face. "It ill becomes an officer, any officer, to speak ill of his betters," he muttered, "Or rail against the hand that Fortune and Chance have dealt him, or others."

"Ha! Seniors, lad, not betters." Without warning, the captain stepped back from the wheel, and commanded, "Lieutenant, take the helm."

Sam's training took over immediately. "Aye sir, I have the helm," he replied automatically, stepping up to the wheel and consulting the compass before realising what he had done.

Sailing across the wind could be tricky: depending on the design of the ship and the `set of the sails, holding course could be a difficult and physically demanding task as the rudder fought the wheel. Sam had seen ships' Quartermasters take a strutting young Midshipman or Lieutenant who chafed against his seniors' authority down a peg or two by turning the ship across the wind, then inviting the unsuspecting youngster to take the wheel – hilarity usually ensued when the arrogant young pup was flung sideways and knocked square on his backside. Indeed, the first time his father had smilingly allowed him to take the helm of the _Impala_ under such circumstances, with a view to teaching him the extent of his own ignorance, the wheel had shaken him like a terrier with a rat in its jaws. So it was that Sam tensed himself to wrestle with the helm to hold course, giving anyone considering the matter yet another opportunity to think about him standing shirtless with his marvellous musculature on show and flexing in all the right places.

And yet...

The _Perdition_ did not resist him as he had expected her to do: he could feel the push of the ocean beneath him, urging the ship hither as she strained to turn yon and follow the wind, and the resistance as the rudder interfered, keeping her on heading. Yes, it took effort, but to him it did not seem a tiring chore. Watching the compass, he marvelled at the smoothness with which the vessel responded.

"I must congratulate you on the design of your ship, captain," Sam smiled, feeling the _Perdition_ respond readily to his merest touch on the wheel," For I had expected the task to be more... demanding. She fights me not at all for the heading."

The man styled Lucifer by many smiled. "Not all who would sail her could," he said, "For she has her quirks, peculiarities and moods, as does any ship. I do believe that she likes you, and accepts you."

Sam laughed aloud. "Why, you sound like my brother," he suggested, "Who also speaks of his ship as if 'twere a living creature." He looked up, scrutinising the rigging. "If we are to hold this course for any length of time, might I presume to suggest that a modification to the sail might ease the strain on the mast, yet give us more canvas..."

The captain forestalled him by holding up a hand. "Suggest nothing to me," he chortled, "For you have the helm, Sam. Issue what orders you will."

Sam immediately began to snap out instructions, and the crew scrambled to obey.

Lucifer stepped back, and smiled.

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"He is not dead. He cannot be dead."

Dean sat at the table, staring at nothing. A single, manly tear, mayhap not so much a tear as a drop of pure stoic squeezed out from the truly epic amount of stoicism contained within him, trailed down one high chiseled cheekbone, giving him an air of masculine vulnerability that would have made any woman swoon and marvel that such a virile young specimen of manhood could cry so prettily, and possibly contemplate poking him with a hatpin to try to make him do it again.

"He is not dead."

"Here," Ronnie pushed a mug of grog into his hand, perhaps the only woman in the Northern Hemisphere who would not think to herself _Verily and forsooth this man be so attractive when he weeps that myself am moved to run at him backwards_ ; his nose told him that it was the doctor's capital brandy, and not the appalling antipodean rum that she favoured. "Drink this."

"He is not dead," Dean said again, ignoring the drink. "He cannot be dead."

Few would have suspected that Veronica Aoire, Ronnie Shepherd, could be capable of such gentleness. "Dean, your brother was lost overboard in a storm," she told him quietly. "I understand how hard it is to accept the loss of a beloved younger sibling, truly I know, but it is imperative that you accept what has happened, however difficult that is."

"But, he is my little brother, he cannot be..." Dean suddenly gasped, and reached into his pocket, drawing out his peculiar compass.

"What on earth is that?" she asked, genuinely curious, "What strange trinket is that?"

"I had it with me when I fell overboard," he explained, "It is a most unusual instrument – I surmise that it points always to what I most want at a moment, and as that right now is my brother Sam..."

They both watched as the needle wavered slightly, but then swung to hold a course pointing south.

"You surmise his demise, and yet it holds a heading," he noted, hope in his voice. "Mayhap, he be not beyond this world."

"May I see that?" Ronnie asked. Wordlessly, Dean handed it over.

Frowning at the device, she passed a hand over it once, twice, whilst muttering under her breath; when he made to interrupt, she spoke first. "Hush! I wish to inspect the nature of this most unusual curio."

"You... what are you doing?" he asked, wiping his face as he watched her strange actions.

After a minute or so, she stopped, and put it down on the table. "This item is bespelled," she pronounced.

Dean looked at her carefully. "You... you practise in such matters?" he asked, "For by preference, I am reluctant to treat with those engaged in the dark arts of witchcraft and enchantments."

Ronnie gave him a most brilliant smile, and he marveled at how it changed the appearance of her visage. "Aye, there are those who do practise with foul intent," she chuckled, "But I am not one of them. My mother was a powerful white witch; from her I inherited occult talent. However, like any raw ability, if not constantly studied and practised it will not develop to virtuoso performance; I was a capable but unwilling student to her teachings. But I am yet able to perform basic tasks, as an unattentive student of music may play scales yet attempt no complicated compositions." She looked thoughtful. "Tis a most interesting item, where came you by it?"

"I won it, gambling," Dean told her, "From a most peculiar individual, a common thief who styled himself 'Captain' – hair longer than yours, and, sadly, a face prettier than yours, for he did adorn himself with kohl unto resembling some Barbary courtesan, and a penchant for running away that rivals Gabriel..."

"Hold, Captain." Ronnie's face creased in thought. "I believe I know of this fellow, what was his name, Mack, possibly, Mack, Mack Scarrow..."

"Jake Swallow?" Dean supplied.

"Ah, yes, mayhap that was it," she nodded. "Attempted to cheat at cards, ran like a maiden in bare feet trying to cross a cold floor?"

"Tis the very fellow," declared Dean.

"God's death, the fool attempted to steal aboard the _She-Wolf_ undetected, once," she laughed, "After I took a fat purse from him at _ombre_. He and his two companions. Well, you can imagine how long that lasted."

"What did you do?" he asked, curious.

"Oh, we quarantined him in the brig, in case he was ill," she waved a hand airily, "After dunking him in vinegar as a precaution against contagion, then put him ashore at our very next port of call. I kept his dogs, though." She indicated two small terriers who were curled together on a blanket under her bunk. "Pistol and Boo, they are famous ratters, and valued crew members. Hmmmm, I wonder where he did obtain this most unusual artefact."

"It matters not," Dean told her, "What matters is, it points to Sam still. Captain Shepherd, I it is my fervent hope that this indicates he be yet alive." He paused. "I wonder if he was taken up by the ship that fired upon you?"

"The ship that..." Ronnie's eyes bugged. "What ship? The _Impala_ fired on us!"

"Nay," Dean shook his head, "Not I! Why, attempting to run cannon out in such weather as we sailed through would be pure madness! An open invitation to broach and sink! No captain of any sense would so risk his ship and the lives of his entire crew!"

She regarded him thoughtfully. "Sam said as much," she said eventually, "He said that you would have far too much care for your people, and your vessel, to attempt such an attack."

"He was right," Dean stated emphatically. "I would never do such a thing. We sighted another ship; briefly, once only, but it was definitely there." His face grew grim. "My First Mate was absolutely certain that it was the _Perdition_."

Ronnie's eyes widened, then she scowled. "I have heard the tales," she told him. "Aye, as has anyone who sails. The man called Lucifer, and his ship of wicked individuals to do his bidding whatever it be, for he has no regard for their wellbeing and little care for his own."

"My First Mate is a sober and godly man, and he declared that he has... reliable intelligence of this ship and her complement," Dean went on ominously. "He informed me that this man, Lucifer, is all that is rumoured, and more besides. He... he suggested that this captain deals in the dark arts." He paused. "If that be so, methinks, then, was it he who called forth the storm? For it did arise so suddenly, with such ferocity, and depart with equal suddenness." He looked up. "Could he do that?"

"Well, yes," she replied, "A competent practitioner could do so, given time to make preparation."

"Why then do you not do so?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Or do you?"

"I do not!" she spat angrily, "When the _She-Wolf_ bests a would-be attacker, she succeeds on the courage and discipline of her crew alone! Aye, I will admit, I may on rare occasion call a modest breeze if we be becalmed in the Horse Latitudes – but to undertake occult manipulations to raise a storm and attack another vessel at sea? Fie, such a thing be pure wickedness! I, for one, will not imperil my soul with such foul practices!" He face grew stern. "Furthermore, there is always a price when working a spell to one's own advantage," she cautioned. "Always. Too many forget that, and when it comes time to pay, they find that they are ill prepared for the Fates to exact the sum demanded."

"And yet, if my First Mate be right, and I think he is," Dean went on, "Such conduct would not be anathema to this Lucifer, for if he cares so little for his physical self, what care for his immortal one?"

"If your brother has fallen in with Lucifer..." standing up suddenly, Ronnie strode to her bunk, and retrieved something. With a gasp, Dean saw that it was the knife that he had given to Sam when his little brother had left their father's vessel for the Navy so many years ago. "Aye, it be his," she said when she saw his face, "And I may use it to work a small scrying. Pass me that mug, and the bottle."

Dean watched her fill the tankard to the brim with her rum, place Sam's knife beside it, and stare into the liquid as she muttered to herself. After a minute had passed, the surface of the drink began to ripple...

As he stared, he fancied that he could make out a dark tableau in the stippled liquor: a man, a tall man, with his long hair loose, bare-chested and tanned, standing at the bow of a ship, gazing out over the water.

"It's Sam!" he gasped, "I see my brother!" He squinted. "Though I do not recall him wearing his trousers so closely fitted."

"I see him too," Ronnie confirmed, sitting back as the picture dissolved, a look of relief on her face. "You are right. Sam is alive! Thank the Almighty."

"Aboard a ship," Dean added. "Though we know not what ship."

"It matters not," she waved a hand dismissively, "For with your strange compass, we have the means to locate him."

Dean looked up at her. "What are you suggesting, Captain Shepherd?" he asked.

She called for George to serve their dinner. "I am suggesting," her smile promised havoc, "That we dine before calling Doctor MacGregor and First Mate Tsweetie in for our council of war. Eat up, Captain Winchester, for such plans are more agreeably laid on a full stomach."

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The crew of the _Impala_ busied themselves with repairing damage caused by sailing through such a severe storm, subdued with the loss of their young captain, but taking orders willingly from the First Mate; in the wake of the storm, Castiel had been acclaimed unanimously as commander, but could not bear to style himself Captain Godson so soon after the loss of his best friend.

"What heading, Castiel?" asked Bobby quietly.

"The Master is ascertaining our position now," he replied, "As soon as he has done so, he will set a course to re-establish our pursuit of the _She-Wolf_. We may have lost Dean, but I will sail up the Styx itself if necessary to find Sam, and bring him home safely."

* * *

Seagoing suspense! Aquatic angst! See Sam swashbuckle! Catch Castiel captaining! Discern Dean doing Deanish deeds - how much longer can he go without making 'poop deck' or 'booty' jokes? Or will Ronnie shiver his timbers, leaving the poor boy hornswaggled, requiring the doctor to splice his mainbrace (and with cold hands, too)? Feed Dirty Miranda the piratical plot bunny reviews, and let's see what she says!


	21. Chapter 21

You may have heard tell of a certain Mr John Depp and his two dogs, Pistol and Boo, who were flown to Australia on a private jet and accompanied him to the place where he stayed during filming for one of his movies (in which he played some pirate, I don't know, Jeff Swallow, Jim Starrow, something like that), deliberately circumventing Australia's strict customs and quarantine laws. They had to fly back, and he and his bit of fluff of the time made one of the most impressive #sorrynotsorry apology videos I've ever seen. He looked a bit like a potato, I thought. He also described our Minister for Agriculture & Water as 'an angry tomato', which is in fact exactly what Barnaby Joyce looks like. It's a shame we couldn't deport Mr Depp and keep the dogs, though, they were a pair of real cuties.

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-One**

When Becky the cabin girl came running to summon Doctor McGregor and First Mate Miss Tsweetie to the captain's cabin, they feared that they were being called upon to prevent two individuals from slaughtering each other. Instead, they found them in animated conversation over one of the charts, whilst drinking coffee as George cut a pie.

"Do you fear us being becalmed?" Dean was saying, pausing only to slurp at his coffee, "Should our course take us from the trade winds?"

"Perhaps," replied Ronnie, wiping her mouth on her sleeve, "Also, bear in mind that we are yet a ship under repair – my word, George, that smells wonderful, what is it?"

"It be a pie, Captain Shepherd," George explained, "Of a sort enjoyed by Captain Winchester. It be baked with fruit inside, yet it be not a pastry coffin destined for re-use as a means of preserving food, as persons of the Anglosphere know pies at this time in history, but a concoction of lighter texture, the pastry containing sugar and butter, intended to be eaten along with the filling."

"I do for myself much enjoy such pie," Dean confirmed, reaching across the table to grab a slice with his hand in a fashion deemed oafish enough by George that she whipped out the wooden spoon that she kept about her person at all times for the purposes of bottom smacking, and whacked him smartly upon his pert posterior with it.

"Might I try that?" asked Ronnie.

"Of course, Captain," George replied, holding out the wooden spoon, "But take care, for under certain circumstances I believe he enjoys such chastisement."

"Indeed," Dean took a bite and spoke with his mouth full, "For there be an establishment in London, the Nevada, where the proprietor, Mistress Amanda, is a woman who could teach the most capable seaman a thing or two about tying knots, and..."

"Fie!" yapped Ronnie, "I did refer to the pie, you lecherous wretch! Should I desire to strike you, I shall do so with naught but my bare hand, in the sure and certain knowledge that you shall not enjoy it!" She helped herself to a slice, and bit into it. "Oh, my word, that is quite wonderful. Ah, Doctor, Miss Tsweetie," she greeted them as they arrived, "Please join us. Would you care to try some of this wonderful pie baked by the talented George?"

"Would you care not to speak with your mouth full, you indecorous individual?" frowned Doctor McGregor.

Ronnie swallowed hurriedly like a child reminded of her manners in front of a dowager great aunt whom the family does not wish to offend lest she change her last will and testament to exclude them. "Captain Winchester and I are in receipt of most cheering intelligence," she announced, "For we have determined that his brother, Sam, be not dead, but alive and well, aboard another ship."

"What?" Miss Tsweetie looked confused. "What other ship? Oh, I say, this is very tasty, George, brava!"

"The ship that fired on the _She-Wolf_ ," Dean rarely bothered with the niceties of not eating and speaking simultaneously.

Doctor McGregor looked confused. "But that was your ship, the _Impala_."

"Not so, Doctor," Dean shook his head. "In such weather, 'twould be the act of a fool, and no fool am I. There was another vessel, and we have good reason to believe 'twas... the _Perdition_."

George and Miss Tsweetie gasped, for they had heard tales of that cursèd vessel also, and Dean was astonished to see Doctor McGregor suddenly show sharp glinting fangs in his anger. "I have heard of this vessel," he intoned grimly. Yea, I first heard tell of the _Perdition_ many years ago, and I am much older than I look. If but one tenth of the tales told have any grain of merit, then I fear that the young Lieutenant be imperilled unto his life, if not his very soul."

"And that is why we meet now, so that we may formulate a strategy of rescue," Ronnie said around bites of pie.

"We have the means to find him," Dean indicated his odd compass, which sat on one of the charts, "And intend to lay a course of pursuit with all speed."

"It sounds to me as though you have laid your plans already," Doctor MacGregor smiled, his fangs retracting, "But we are a damaged ship, breached twice, and missing half the foremast."

"We are no ordinary crew, Doctor," Miss Tsweetie reminded him, "And the moon is waxing in a clear sky, giving good light – the crew is already about the business of repairs, and when they are informed that we sail to Sam's rescue, they will be willing, nay, they will be eager to redouble their efforts, for he was respected and well liked amongst us."

"Well then, why do we tarry?" Captain Shepherd declared, "Miss Tsweetie, kindly inform the watch of our new strategy. And Doctor, would you be so kind as to locate Gabriel, and tell him that the captain presents her compliments, and commands him to get his sorry arse to her quarters within sixty seconds of the turn of the glass for the forenoon watch tomorrow."

As the Doctor left, Dean turned to his fellow captain. "I must thank you, Captain Shepherd," he began, "For your willingness to assist in the resc- what are you doing?"

"What think you I am doing?" she replied as she kicked off her boots, shrugged out of her coat and began to unlace her vest.

"If I did not know better, I might think that... ye gods, woman, you are disrobing!"

"Tis well to see that your mental faculties, such as they be, have not been further damaged by prolonged immersion in seawater," she noted, folding her vest tidily then beginning on her trousers.

"Judas Priest, Captain Shepherd, have you no shame?" he demanded, bug-eyed.

"None whatsoever," she replied equably, folding her trousers then reaching for the buttons of her shirt, "For a person may behave with decorum and modesty, no matter their state of dress. It is the nature of my kind that we care not for such things, and I am somewhat surprised that a man who patronises the Nevada should be in the least discomfited by the sight of the female form..."

"But it is _your_ female form, Captain!" Dean practically howled as he turned his back. Then he let out a gasp of horror. "Good grief, surely you are not going to demand payment in kind for the use of your ship to rescue my brother? A term of servitude at your beck and call?"

"Oh for Heaven's sake," she snapped crossly, "Get your mind above your belt, Winchester! I must shift my shape to my bestial wolf form, in order to assist with repairs, for not all aboard are dextrous enough for such work, and that work must go as speedily as possible! Prepare yourself, Captain, for I am a confronting sight once changed from my human self."

"I have in fact seen one of your ilk in beastly form," he sniffed disdainfully, though not telling her how he came to have such knowledge, "It holds no terrors for me."

"That is well, then," she grunted, "There is yet much to do – I expect you will make yourself useful. You may assist me at the forge later, as your brother did, for that will give the Narrative Causation Fairy plausible reason to have you remove your shirt and stand around, muscles flexing and covered with a light sheen of sweat for the pervy musings of such Deangirls as may be desirous of contemplating you at maximum fanserviceability. And for your edification," she growled, "Were I of a mind to find a handsome and well-muscled young buck to chain naked to my bunk for my personal carnal enjoyment, you would be the last person on God's green earth that I would consider, unless I could have you shackled and gagged!"

Dean turned back to her, looking thoughtful. "How odd you should say such a thing," he mused, "For Mistress Amand- _faff!"_

The shirt hit him in the face.

When he removed it, a werewolf, much shorter than Master Jaeger but very heavily built, offered him an expression of distaste that he would never have suspected a lupine face could form.

The creature extended one long arm, recognisably offered him the gesture the ancient Romans had referred to as the _digitus impudicus_ , then stalked out of the cabin.

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Sam stood at the gunwale, gazing out over the ocean, and pondered his situation.

He had been treated with courtesy by Captain Godson, and wary deference by the crew, in a way that did not correlate with the tales he had heard of the vessel. He had been assigned a bunk in a relatively spacious cabin, which he would have thought should belong to the First Mate, and yet he felt so strangely at ease aboard the _Perdition_ , he had stayed out on deck into the night, and did something he had not done since he was a boy: when the moon was high, he curled up against a coil of rope as he had when his father commanded the _Impala_ , trying to stay awake and listen to the conversations of the crew until he grew sleepy and curled up under a sheet of canvas, being rocked to sleep by the familiar rhythms and sounds, the familiar and comforting surrounds, of the vessel that was his home. Why he should feel so comfortable aboard a ship he'd never set foot aboard before was a mystery.

At sea, there was never such thing as 'nothing to do', so as the sun rose and the watch changed Sam found tasks with which to busy himself. He helped man the capstan to replace a torn sail, gritting his teeth and trying to ignore the squeeing and applause of the three naughty ladies as they watched him in action, muscles flexing and bunching in his back and arms under his sweating skin.

After that, he quenched his thirst with ale along with everybody else, once more ignoring his audience as the oohed and aahed over the small dribbles that escaped the mug and ran in rivulets down his neck and magnificent chest, to end in the darkening waistband of his not-quite-as-loose-as-he-would-have-preferred-and-yet-still-managing-to-give-the-impression-that-they-were-barely-clinging-to-his-hips trousers.

Finally, seeking a task where he could use his brain rather than just brute strength, and thereby discourage the unseemly pervings of those dread beldames, he ordered them back to their haberdashery, then busied himself with splicing out a worn hawser, for he had oft been commended for his competence with fid and marlinspike. He found himself humming cheerfully as he worked, as a crew member approached, touched his cap deferentially, presented the captain's compliments, and asked him to join the captain to dine at the turn of the noon watch. He sent back a polite thanks and acceptance, then laid aside his work and went immediately to find the trio of lecherous ladies, who seemed absolutely delighted that he had sought them out rather than telling them to go peddle their papers.

"Avast, pervy wenches," he addressed them sternly, "I am invited to dine with the captain this noon, and would fain do so in a state of dress unseemly to the occasion, wherefore I do enquire as to your progress with a shirt for me."

"This one is completed," MarieLee held up said garment, "Though I have not had opportunity yet to add the ruffles..."

"There be no need of ruffles!" Sam yapped hurriedly, "For I am aboard a ship, not promenading like a perfumed fop along the boulevards of Paris!"

"Ooooh, I should very much like to see you promenade," smiled Ranger.

"And I should very much like to see you attend to your task with more diligence," Sam frowned, "Now if that shirt be completed hand it over with all speed!"

MarieLee did so with a sigh.

"And now you shall set about making me another pair of trousers," he instructed, "And another shirt, for strange things befall me in the clothing idiom, and so long as you ladies are within a league of me I fear for my haberdashery. Make not disappointed faces, proceed at once, monstrous madams! And allow a little more room in the trousers this time."

"If we could just take some more measurements," suggested Leeliz, brandishing a measuring tape from somewhere about her person.

"No," he stated firmly. "Now, be about your sewing."

MarieLee crossed her arms and pouted. "What's in it for us?" she demanded.

"Indeed," sniffed Ranger, "For we be not slaves."

Sam threw his hands up in exasperation. "I have no coin," he told them, "Having been washed overboard in naught but the kilt borrowed from Douglas, as well you know."

"Perhaps we might accept... payment in kind...?" suggested Leeliz.

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As the mate piped the noon watch, Sam made his way to the captain's cabin. Lucifer quirked one eyebrow at Sam's shirt, which was remarkably open at the neck in a fashion that might have been anticipated on the cover of a romance novel rather than on one of His Majesty's Navy officers, and somehow contrived to reveal the development of his physique rather than cover it decently.

"I am afraid it was provided like this," Sam explained with resignation as he sat, glaring at Ranger as she served the meal and smiled sunnily at him, "For those bold women have neglected to provide buttons further than halfway up this shirt. In truth, I was forced to agree to half an hour of promenading with them to provide me with another change of clothes."

"Ah, negotiating with women be as treacherous as negotiating the Strait of Magellan in a stiff northerly," Lucifer nodded sagely, pouring drinks. "Methinks you escaped lightly. Now," he indicated the plates on the table, "Please do start. That is," he grinned, "If ye be not afraid to sup with Lucifer."

Sam reached for a cold cut on the platter before him. "I would fain insult you by refusing your kind invitation, Captain," he said politely, "For I am but a guest aboard your ship, and have been well treated."

"And yet you must have heard stories of this vessel," the captain smiled his half-inviting, half-menacing smile.

"I have heard inflated tales of many vessels, many places, and many men," Sam replied carefully. "Largely, I credit them not, until I have reliable and sensible intelligence, or the evidence before my own eyes."

"Why, young man, you are a natural philosopher born," Lucifer's smile was actually warm, "In truth, many men are content to judge me on the word of others, and according to their own entrenched prejudices." He paused. "I suspect, Lieutenant, that you also have experienced this." Seeing Sam's shuttered expression, he went on in a lighter vein. "And yet, it matters not, for you rise on your own merits. Your ropework cannot be faulted, I have not seen better for a long time. Did you learn the craft before you joined? Was your father a seaman?"

"Aye, I learned from my older brother," Sam could not help but smile at the memory. "Aboard our father's ship. He began to teach me when I was just a boy. I learned on simple four-stranded line, and he petitioned the ship's carpenter to make me a small fid, and the smith to produce a tiny marlinspike for a child to use."

"He taught you well," Lucifer noted, "And himself just a boy also? A born mariner, then. His Majesty is most fortunate to have two such capable officers at his disposal."

"Oh, my brother is not Navy," Sam corrected, "He took command upon our father's death, and now captains that vessel on which we both grew up."

Lucifer's face grew concerned. "Then your brother was a fool to drive out such a capable seaman as yourself," he noted, "And it is a sad thing for a man to lose his home."

"Oh, he did not, sir," Sam countered quickly, "I left for the Navy whilst our father was yet alive – my brother did petition me to stay, and once in command he attempted to persuade me to return."

"Ah," Lucifer looked thoughtful, and paused to take another mouthful. "So, from your tone, I deduce that you are... fond of him?"

"Aye, he is my brother, sir," Sam confirmed, smiling, "Though sometimes, he was more of a parent, in that he looked to my welfare, and my schooling on board, such as it was."

"I have seen it happen," the captain nodded, "A man in command of a ship may have limited time for his children, and the eldest must assume that responsibility." Watching Sam keenly, he asked, "How then came you to leave your father's ship?"

Sam put down his knife, and slowly finished the mouthful he was chewing. "It is… family business, petty detail, with which I would not bore you," he replied, his tone short and carrying warning in a way he might not hitherto have used to address a senior officer.

Lucifer smiled somewhat sadly, but continued to watch Sam carefully. "Lieutenant, I too grew up under the watchful eye of my older brother, as our father was absent, about his business, for most of that time. Aye, he cared for his children – I am of a large family – but it was his eldest, mostly, who raised me as perhaps my father should have done. I looked up to my brother as if were a god; he was dear to me, and still is. We have that in common."

"What does your older brother now?" asked Sam, thinking that, given Lucifer's age, his father must surely be deceased, or at least be of such venerability that he would no longer be active in any occupation, "Does he carry on your father's business?"

"Aye," Lucifer sighed, "And we have grown… estranged, to my regret." He reached for the bottle of wine on the table. "But let us speak of more cheerful things," his tone brightened, "Such as the offer I wish to make you."

"Offer, Captain?" Sam echoed in curiosity, "What offer?"

Lucifer regarded him keenly. "Lieutenant… Sam. We have been acquainted but a short time, and yet I discern you to be a young man of intelligence, with many strengths and talents, abilities that I suspect go overlooked, unrecognised, and unharnessed, by those to whom you have answered in your life. But I can see them in you. I would see those talents achieve their full potential. Before we next make landfall, it is my hope that I will have convinced you to stay, and to join the complement of the _Perdition_."

* * *

Oh noes! What is Lucifer plotting? You know he's plotting something, otherwise he wouldn't be here at this dramatic juncture of the narrative. I am currently assailed by a terrible heavy cold, and if I write anything more in the immediate future, it will be under the influence of a potent mix of tea, cold & flu meds and chocolate biscuits. Could get interesting. Send Dirty Miranda the plot bunny reviews, and we'll see how long Dean and Ronnie can be civil to each other.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Sam paused, food halfway to his mouth. "Captain?"

Lucifer chuckled. "You heard me correctly, Lieutenant," he said, "I am offering you a position, a senior command position, aboard the _Perdition_."

"I am an officer of His Majesty's Navy," Sam told him firmly, "And I must make all effort to return, and inform the Admiralty of my circumstances." He took another bite of meat, and changed the subject. "Whither are we bound, Captain Godson?"

Lucifer stared at him with an ambiguous expression until Sam once more had to fight the urge to bare his teeth.

Sam did not drop his eyes. "I did take the liberty of perusing your charts and log earlier, such as were open on the desk," he admitted. "Is the _Perdition_ headed for the Caribbean? If so, I would be grateful to go ashore there; if I might rejoin the vessel that first rescued me, I may have means to compensate you for my keep whilst I am aboard, and perhaps persuade those haberdashing harridans to quit your vessel and return whence they came..."

"Aye," Lucifer drawled thoughtfully, "But I find that, now you are aboard, Lieutenant, I enjoy your company, and would welcome your competence; I would fain relinquish you so soon after meeting you."

"That is kind of you, Captain," Sam said politely, "But I must take pains to inform the Navy of my survival and my whereabouts. I must make effort to return to duty with all diligence, wherefore I ask that, as soon as possible, I be put ashore somewhere in proximity to a post of His Majesty's naval or military forces."

Lucifer smiled again. "The young are always in such a hurry," he mused, "It would please me greatly to have you stay aboard with us."

Sam's manner remained calm. "If you have your reasons for not wishing to approach any post claimed and held in the name of the King, then Port Royal will suffice," he said reasonably, "Or some means to approach, whereby your crew need not show themselves."

The other man laughed. "Oh, I have nothing to fear from His Majesty's lackeys," he chortled, "Rather, 'twould be the other way around. No, you are a prize amongst men, Sam Winchester." He stared hard. "I would not see you leave without making every effort to have you stay."

Sam put his knife down with great deliberation, and returned Lucifer's direct gaze. "Let us be frank, _Captain_ ," he said, an edge to his voice as he made great effort to keep his temper reined in, "Your name is tarnished with infamy. Such tales may be exaggerated, and yet may oft be condensed around a grain of truth. If you be naught but a buccaneer, a shameless freebooter, and if I am to be held a prisoner, hostage to exchange for a ransom, then at least have the _virtus_ to tell me so, and plainly, to my face, and then you had best have me confined to the brig, for I will entertain no pleasant intercourse with a man who styles himself a captain yet is naught but a brigand, a marooner, no better than a scurvy cut-purse lurking in the rookeries of London!"

Lucifer leaned forward with a predatory smile. "And yet, I am in command here," threat lurked in his voice, "And for that choice insult, I could have you flogged."

Sam's smile was every bit as dangerous. "You could try," he replied.

The tense moment shattered abruptly as the captain sat back and laughed heartily. "Virtus! He questions my virtus! Oh, Sam," he chuckled, "I thank you for making me laugh so, for it does not happen often. No, you are no prisoner here – I shall not compel or coerce you to do aught you would not choose to do of your own mind." His face became serious. "We will continue to Port Royal. You shall retain the cabin next to mine, where you may lock the door 'gainst whom you will." He toyed with the food on his plate. "And you may leave us, if that is your wish – but before you make that decision, I would tell you what is in my mind."

When Sam did nothing but gaze back warily, he continued.

"I have sailed these oceans many years, now, aye, I am older than I look," he gestured at his crumbling visage," And I am better at reading men than most – and it is my belief that we have much in common." When Sam remained silent, Lucifer went on. "A young man, a second son, growing up under the care and tutelage of his older brother when their father's attention was elsewhere. But I tell you, Sam, when his attention did turn our way, why, from an early age, upon my brother shone approval, whereas I received nothing but opprobrium. Why? For having the temerity to question, to disagree, not to follow orders like a well-trained soldier as did my brother, as soon as I was old enough to think for myself. I was never good enough, never obedient enough, never conformable enough. And my brother, to whom I had looked up, finally took Father's side. Oh, I loved my brother, in truth, and still I do, but fie, how we did quarrel! Father with me, me with Michael, until it became clear that I could not find a place in my father's home, but would have to leave to find a place of my own. I miss it. I miss my home, and I miss my family, above all I miss my brother, but I count it a price worth paying to be my own man." Lucifer looked up. "So, why did you leave your father's vessel, Sam?"

Sam said nothing, but feared that his expression spoke volumes.

Lucifer smiled once more. "You are a young man of intelligence, and many strengths and talents, abilities that I suspect have gone overlooked, unrecognised, and unharnessed, by those to whom you have answered in your life," he said gently. "But I can see them in you. You wish to lead your own life, according to your own design, not that which is decided without your consultation. I would see those talents achieve their full potential, to the benefit of this ship as well as yourself. For... the _Perdition_ needs you, Sam."

"What?" Sam spat out, bemused, "Needs _me_? How so?"

Lucifer gestured at himself. "The man you see before you is dying," he confided, "And is not long now for this world. Before then, I would see this ship safe under a new commander, a captain with the wherewithal to command her crew, a captain who... understands her."

Sam's jaw dropped. "You are... Captain, do I hear you aright? Are you... are you offering me your post?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Is this some sort of Dread Pirate Roberts arrangement?"

"Not exactly," Lucifer chuckled, "It is an offer, a request, from a... kindred spirit. I would see this vessel appropriately commanded, when my earthly form returns to the dust whence it came."

Sam looked as stunned as he felt. "This is a most... unexpected petition," he noted eventually.

"It is," agreed Lucifer, reaching for the wine bottle, "And I hope that you will give it your consideration. Meantime, you may chart our headings, log our progress, and take the helm yourself, if that is your preference, to satisfy yourself that we are indeed bound for Jamaica. And when we dock at Port Royal, you will be free to leave if you will. But by then, it is my hope that you will agree to stay."

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Dean looked out over the dead flat sea, and swore under his breath, looking dangerously masculine and interesting (or even interestingly dangerous and masculine) as he paced the deck like a caged lion, inducing George to fan herself with the nearest baking tray. "Still we are becalmed," he noted, an edge to his voice.

"Indeed," replied Captain Shepherd, her hand on the wheel and her demeanour as restless as his, "It was a risk we ran, in plotting this course. But having set our hand to the plough, we must finish the furrow."

"Yet every hour my brother is borne further away from us!" Dean snapped.

"I am aware of that," Ronnie replied through her teeth.

He scowled as he scanned the rigging. "Why is there not more canvas aloft?" he demanded, glaring at a couple of crew members who busied themselves with sail repair. "You, get up there and unreef..."

A hand gripped his arm more roughly than most men would have dared, and spun him about. "Belay that," Ronnie growled as she glared up at him, "The foremast is damaged – Douglas says it must be replaced, and I will not gainsay the carpenter, for he knows his business. The matter is in hand, and the crew is using this weather to best advantage." She indicated the group of werewolves who were, under Douglas's oversight, manhandling a new mast up from below deck.

"Yet the lower yards may be used," Dean insisted, "If we can..."

She bared her teeth at him. "I am in command here, Captain Winchester," she hissed angrily, "You are a guest aboard my vessel, and retain your title and style as a courtesy."

"If you command here, then act like it!" he snarled back.

"Do not provoke me, man," she warned, "For I will not hesitate to swat you like a gnat if you dare challenge my authority!"

"Enough!" The voice that interrupted carried curt authority of its own; Doctor McGregor appeared from nowhere as was his wont, and glared at both of them. "Can I not leave you two unattended for a moment, but you shall fall to squabbling like ill-mannered children? Captain Winchester, it would behove you to recall your place on this vessel. Ronnie, he is sick with worry for his brother, idiot child, you must understand that or fail in charity."

"We are all concerned for Sam," she said sharply, "But raising sail on a damaged mast may endanger this ship and her whole crew, which will help not at all."

The noon watch was piped, and her expression hardened. "And now, gentlemen, I have a meeting with Gabriel." She turned to Dean. "Captain Winchester, would you care to accompany me? Yes? Capital."

She began to head for the hatch.

"Er, was he not supposed to meet you in your cabin?" Dean asked.

"Supposed to, yes," Ronnie sighed, tapping her nose, "But my snout tells me that he is not there. He will be in the brig, or seeking some new bolt hole, so I might as well as find him out as sit in my cabin becoming angry about his failure to attend me."

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Sam spent some time with the charts and tables, devising a more efficient course to Jamaica given what he knew of the tides and climate and season of that region of the globe, but he felt strangely restless. In the end, he left off and headed back out on deck. His feet took him from one end of the ship to the other, his adoring coterie trailing him at a discreet distance and the crew murmuring respectful acknowledgements, exploring the _Perdition_ as his mind turned over the captain's offer. He recalled an incident when he was a very small child, where a fast-talking toothless old man in one of the bustling multilingual markets of the Mediterranean had sold him a magical coin from Neptune's own chest, for just tuppence. When it had turned out to be naught but a clipped and corroded old counterfeit farthing, barely worth the pitted metal it was made from, he had been sorely disappointed, but the Quartermaster of the _Impala_ , a wise old mariner named Bobby Singer, had drawn him away from the laughter of the crew and explained to him some of life's hard lessons: the world was full of people who sought to take advantage of the unwary, and if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. _Be thankful, boy_ , the old man had advised, _That you get the opportunity to learn this so early – some men don't learn it until late in life, and some never learn it at all, to their detriment._

He had learned that lesson, and learned it well – Sam had always been a quick learner.

And yet...

He was being offered a ship, a ship of his own. And if he did not accept, he was free to walk away, and resume his Navy career. If he worked hard to prove himself, behaved with diligence and good grace, he would one day have the chance to prove himself fit for command in his own right.

And yet...

He made a conscious effort to squelch the treacherous little voice that had plagued him since before he had left his father's ship, the one that had silently made cold observations as he outstripped his peers, and sometimes his seniors and supposed instructors, in so many things: in ropework, in languages, in navigation, in gunnery, in planning and tactics, in so many aspects of seamanship. Some days it had howled in frustration to be held back and go unrecognised, unacknowledged. Worse still was being passed over for reward by those who were inferior in ability, but had better connections, more respectable families, larger fortunes, and the wherewithal to buy or bribe their way to advancement.

 _You are better than they are._

His brother was fond of asserting that feigned humility became no one (often in the context of regaling his unwilling younger brother with one more tale of Feisty Ladies With Whom I Have Dallied). Sam would glare at his brother with an expression that Dean referred to as The Pruneface Of Disapproval, and point out that Humility was a virtue, whereas Pride was a Cardinal Vice. At that point, Dean would usually opine that Cardinal Vice sounded like a senior churchman who enjoyed the sacramental wine and the company of altar boys a little too much, and Sam would storm out in disapproval of his brother's casual blasphemy.

And yet...

He tried, he really did, to suppress feeling pleasure in the smiling adoration of young Midshipman when he explained their trigonometry to them after the bumbling fool of a Mate, barely competent to lace his own boots let alone navigate, left them thoroughly confused and unedified. Or grim satisfaction in watching a strutting older Lieutenant make a fool of himself by ignoring Sam's calculations, and running the captain's cutter aground on a reef. Or seething rage when the sheer incompetence of those in senior positions endangered vessel and crew. He knew for a fact that, had he commanded the _Stanford_ , she would have been better run, better messed, and her crew would be in better health, aye, and better trained, too; she certainly would never have gone into a freebooting action against the _She-Wolf_ , and her complement, officers and crew, his friends aboard ship, would now be nearing the end of their voyage, anticipating an all too rare return to home and family, not terrified and shot and drowned, lost on account of the stupidity and greed of others, gone to the bottom with no grave but the sea...

 _You are better than they are._

A ship, a crew, a command of his own. He could chart his own course, make his own career, lead his own life. It was what he believed he had always wanted. It sounded... too good to be true.

And yet...

 _What would your brother do, if he found himself in the position of Captain Godson?_

Sam shuddered at the very thought, even as his mind supplied the answer.

 _He would seek to hand over his beloved ship, his Impala, to somebody whom he believed would look after her as he has done. If not to you, then to somebody who possessed the qualities, the skill, the wherewithal to sail her as she was meant to be sailed, as she almost longed to sail..._

 _You are better than they are._

He made his way aft, where the captain wordlessly stepped aside, allowing Sam to consult the compass and take the wheel, a steadying hand on the rudder as he adjusted the heading. He felt the surge of the hull beneath him, the purpose of movement as the _Perdition_ ran with the wind, like a favourite horse responding gladly to the aids of a doting rider.

"She likes you," the captain insisted softly.

The smile on Sam's face was not one his brother would have recognised. "I believe that I like her, too."

Lucifer withdrew unobtrusively, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts.

Yes, Lieutenant Winchester would do very nicely. He was young, and handsome, and well built, even if his trousers were a bit tighter than would be ideal. The magnificent man-mane would be a bonus. Although the sideburns would have to go. But most importantly of all, his mind, his drives, his desires, were... compatible.

Smiling to himself as he ran his hand through his own patchy hair, Lucifer smiled, and withdrew to his cabin, locking the door behind himself.

* * *

Gasp! Horror! Well, we all knew that Lucifer would be up to something dishonourable, didn't we? I mean, he wouldn't be much of a villain otherwise.

What next? Where is Gabriel? Why is he hiding? What is he hiding? Is there chocolate involvement? Send Dirty Miranda the plot bunny reviews, and let's find out!


	23. Chapter 23

So, Dirty Miranda has dictated another chapter with all speed. It's a nice long one (as Dean once said to the diner waitress), the longest you've seen so far (as Dean once said to the bartender) - so be a nice Denizen, and don't read this one until you've reviewed the previous one. Go on, Miranda is watching you. Don't make her a sad bunny. We want her to be a funny bunny.

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-Three**

Captains Shepherd and Winchester found Gabriel sitting in a barrel half filled with red-brown beans, his face smeared with the sweet confection on which he had been snacking. "Oh, hello, Captain, Captain," he greeted them cheerfully as they popped off the lid.

Ronnie glared down at him. "Gabriel, in the name of all that is holy, what are you doing in there?"

"Hiding," he admitted shamelessly, taking another bite of his sweet treat.

She let out an impatient sigh. "Why are you hiding in a barrel of our cargo?" she demanded.

He shrugged. "Well, you would find me right away if I was in the brig, and I hoped that perhaps the smell of this wonderful substance might throw you off the scent, so to speak..."

Dean let out a snort of laughter. "She is female, Gabriel," he chuckled, "Do you truly think that the scent of cacao would somehow repel her? You might as well as wrap yourself in bacon, man. What I believe she means is, why are you hiding away in the hold, when you were ordered you to her cabin this watch?"

"And what on earth are you eating?" added Ronnie.

"Try some," Gabriel waved the brown sweet at her, "I predict that in years to come, this compounded product will be accredited with astounding properties, and deemed capable of mollifying the most irate woman..."

"Fie, you are as bad as our mysteriously decamped naughty ladies, with whom I remonstrate over their anachronisms," she complained, "For that substance will not be formulated for at least another hundred years."

"Wait until the Swiss get hold of the recipe," Gabriel sighed happily.

"Enough of your silly diversions, you candidate for rampaging diabetes," the captain snapped, "What are you doing in there?"

"I told you, I'm hiding," reiterated Gabriel. "From you. Well, mostly. When I am summoned to your cabin, it never bodes well. But also, I wish to avoid physical work, if at all possible."

With a sigh, she extended a hand. "Come on out of there at once, I much have speech with you – though I fear you will not enjoy it, yet I must have knowledge of you."

"What, in the biblical sense?" Gabriel smiled brightly as Dean laughed outright, then yelped as she slapped him upside the head.

"Recall your place," she snarled, "Lest I take away your chocolate!" He whined pitifully, clutching the tasty goodness protectively to his chest. She sighed deeply, and sat down on a bale of fine Spanish wool. "I have had further intelligence about Sam," she added, "From Captain Winchester."

Gabriel immediately became serious, and sat down beside her. "He is alive, is he not?"

"Aye, alive and well," Dean smiled briefly, "And I have news of the ship on which he sails." He fixed the smaller man with a steely stare that, in other circumstances, would have corsets busting left right and centre. "He is aboard the _Perdition_."

They watched Gabriel's face drain of colour, and Ronnie took him firmly by the shoulder. "Gabriel Godson, do you not dare to faint on me!" she hissed urgently.

"My brother," Gabriel murmured faintly, "Is he... is he..."

"Godson?" snapped Dean, "Your name is Godson?"

"It is, though I rarely use it," Gabriel explained, "For I left my family long ago..."

"I have notice of the _Perdition_ as the ship that fired on the _She-Wolf_ ," Dean told him, "My source is impeccable: it was vouchsafed to me by my First Mate, aye, and my best friend, Castiel Godson."

Gabriel let out a small wounded cry, and for a moment they thought he might swoon. "Ca...Castiel?" he whispered. "Castiel is... he is alive?"

"As you or I," Dean confirmed, watching Gabriel smile, though is eyes filled with tears. "Is he your brother?"

"My little brother," Gabriel quavered, "My baby brother. He... he is well? Well and happy?"

Dean's smile was wry. "It can be hard to determine, as his mien be so serious at all times," he confided, "But I believe him to be content with his life as it is, though I think he would be gratified to see me spend less time dallying with ladies of a feisty nature."

Gabriel let out a cross between a sob and a laugh. "That surprises me not at all," he sniffled, "For young Castiel tried ever to be conformable and obedient to our father's will. Religion was taken very seriously in our family, you see. Well, until..." his voice trailed off.

"Gabriel," Ronnie said firmly, "This is a ship of waifs and strays, many with unhappy stories in their wake, and I would fain rake over fading coals if it was not necessary. We have notice that your brother captains the _Perdition_ – is this true?"

"Aye," Gabriel sniffled again, and searched his person for something to wipe his nose with.

"And now we know that Sam, my brother, is aboard that ship," Dean recounted, "Gabriel, I must know – is my brother in any danger?"

At that, Gabriel burst into tears.

"Oh, compose yourself, man," griped Captain Shepherd, thought there was no heat in her words, "If it be so, if Sam be imperilled, we must know, ere we make detailed our plan of rescue. What can you tell us of the man styled Lucifer?"

Gabriel swallowed, and snuffled into silence. "He was... he is my older brother, my second oldest brother," he quavered, "For I am of a large family. I loved all my siblings, but it was him that I loved best, for when Father was away, he cared for me, and taught me. But then, then, as he grew, the arguments began."

"Arguments?" Dean prompted.

Gabriel honked noisily into a handkerchief. "He quarrelled with our father. About many things. I think he chafed under Father's authority, he had his own opinions and beliefs, his own strengths and thoughts, and would not quash them in obedience. And then, he quarrelled with Michael, our oldest brother, who tried to make peace, to have him submit to Father's will, and when persuasion did not work, they fought." He sniffled again. "The fighting, it was terrible. The whole family was drawn in, brother against brother, children against sire, it felt like the world was ending..."

"But you don't like fighting," Ronnie noted.

"I do not," Gabriel agreed, "I found the entire farrago extremely distressing, and so, and so... I ran away. And in place of harmony, our family is now scattered to the four winds."

"What made your brother quarrel with your father so vehemently?" asked Dean.

Gabriel looked sad. "I think that at the bottom of it, he just wanted to lead his own life, as he saw fit," he confided. "And then it was largely about... the nature and source of power, abilities that he had and yet was not permitted to explore, to use." He swallowed nervously. "For ours was a godly household, yet my brother showed nothing but contempt for his fellow man, but showed an interest in, and a talent for, what can only be referred to as... Dark Arts."

Dean let out a small snarl, as Ronnie gasped and crossed herself.

"He argued that he could control such things," Gabriel continued miserably, "And use them for his advantage and advancement. I believe he may even have gone as far as summoning things, things that man ought not wot of. He was never afraid of a bit of wotting, I can tell you. But... it took a toll."

"How so?" pressed Dean.

Gabriel looked stricken. "No human body was ever intended to contain such power, such manifestations," he almost whispered, "And it... damaged him. He looked... sick. Ill. Diseased. As if he was being rotted from the inside. But then, the last time I saw him, he was... not himself."

"You mean, he was deranged in his mind?" Ronnie asked. "For that, along with the symptoms you describe, may be a sign of the French Disease..."

"What I mean is worse than that," Gabriel interrupted. "I mean he was, literally, not himself. He was outwardly a completely different person, and yet within, he was... he was most definitely my brother. Yes," he let what he was saying sink in, "He has found some way to... transfer himself, his mind, the essence of his being, from a failing body to a new, healthy one. He tried to tell me what he had done, and offered to do the same for me when my mortal body aged and failed as all mortal men do, but how could I? To steal the body, the life, of another?"

"And yet it did not work," Dean noted. "You said yourself, he appeared to be disintegrating from within."

"He tried to explain it to me, something about compatibility of the, the host," Gabriel honked into his hankie once more, "He said that he had perfected the spell, and he just needed to find a suitable host – he used the word 'vessel', but I could only think of him as acting like some monstrous parasite. For the spell to work perfectly, he required someone who was enough alike to himself in nature."

Dean's face became a picture of horror. "A second son, feeling wronged and suppressed by his father, feeling his talents and abilities ignored, unacknowledged, and striking out on his own to escape," he said faintly, "Dear God in Heaven, is this what he intends for my brother Sam?"

"Sam is intelligent!" yelped Ronnie, "He will not be taken in! He will surely see through Lucifer's design!"

"My brother is very good at getting what he wants," Gabriel observed, "He does it by stealth, by persuasion, by telling the truth – for a man may be deceived by truth far more readily than by lies, no matter how clever and consistent."

Dean let out a noise of distress, and dropped his head into his hands. "What am I to do?" he said in a small despairing voice. "My brother is imperilled unto his life, perhaps his very soul, and I am helpless to come to his aid. Mother Mary, help me..."

Ronnie put a hand on his arm, a determined look on her face. "Hush now with that sort of talk," she told him firmly. "God will help those who help themselves – we have a fine ship, aye, and a fine crew, and we will sail to the aid of your brother, whom I trust to resist the devilish blandishments of this fiend."

"But we have no wind!" Dean almost wailed, "We are becalmed, and could be so for days, if not weeks, you know this, you must have experienced it!"

"I have," she replied, "And I therefore know that despair will not help. We will redouble our efforts to have the ship ready to take advantage the moment we get the slightest breeze." She smiled at him. "Captain Winchester, would you be so good as to go above, and work with Douglas, supervise the raising of the new mast?"

Dean managed to give her the sort of brave, vulnerable smile that would've made any other woman emit a noise that sounded like _squeeeee!_ and reach out to crush him to her soft and comforting bosom. "Is that an order, Captain Shepherd?"

"It is," she replied, "Now, hop to it, sailor, before I seek out George, and borrow her wooden spoon with which to chastise your admittedly pert and smackable arse for dawdling."

"You flirt," he simpered, making all haste for the hatch.

When he had left, Gabriel looked at her with a combination of dread and disapproval. "Captain, what plan you to do?"

She stood up. "What I must."

Nobody on board would have believed that Gabriel would have the temerity to plant himself firmly in front of her. "That is not an answer, that is an evasion."

"It is an answer, and it is the only one you are going to get," she snapped, "Now, stand aside."

He glared at her. "No."

As he watched, her canine fangs emerged, sliding out over her bottom lip as she growled her displeasure. "That was not a request."

"Well this is!" yelped Gabriel. "All I ask is that you think, really think, before you rush ahead and..."

"Do you think I know not what I do?" she snarled, making him quail. "The safety of this crew, my pack, is my responsibility! MY responsibility! That includes Sam Winchester! And I WILL do what I see fit to fulfil that duty!"

He tried once again. "Ronnie, please, all I am asking is that..."

The blow came so fast that it caught him off guard, and sent him crashing against the barrel he'd been hiding in. As she stalked away, she turned, her face almost completely lupine, and rumbled to him in the tone of an Alpha ready to put teeth on the neck of a subordinate.

 _Go back to your hiding, runt, and stay out of my sight._

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The crew of the _She-Wolf_ worked hard at raising the new mast. Dean shed his shirt to lay hand himself to the steadying guys, cords standing out in his arms, and shoulders and back flexed and sweating for the delectation of any passing Deangirls, whilst five of the largest werewolves and the captain assumed their wolf forms, and operated the capstan with block and tackle to raise the structure into place. There was a final cheer as the huge shaft of oak thudded solidly into its mounting, then the crew began the intricate business of securing the guys and raising the yards.

Dean upended a bucket of fresh water (of which there was, as aboard the _Impala_ , a strangely plentiful supply in order that any passing Winchester be given every opportunity to get enticingly soaked or even take a bath) over himself, unwittingly enhancing his fanserviceability by a factor of at least three point six. "I have never seen a mast raised so quickly, or efficiently," he commented to the wolf-creature beside him.

The wolf shook itself, and resolved into the human form of Captain Shepherd. "We are well drilled, and have brute strength on our side," she told him.

"Aaaaargh!" Dean dropped the bucket, and clapped hands to his eyes. "Will you not attire yourself, woman?" he demanded.

"Such rude address to the captain," Ronnie noted equably. "And from such a grubby individual. "What did you do, roll about in the orlop?"

"I have always thought it appropriate to set an example, and not shirk the dirtiest jobs," answered Dean, peeking through his fingers, then dropping his hands with a sigh. "Good grief, why do I bother? At least half the crew is naked."

"It is practical. It is comfortable in this weather, it is convenient, and it saves much doing of laundry," she told him firmly. "Why, even some crew who are not werewolves go skyclad at such times."

"Be it so?" Dean looked thoughtful. "I suspect my brother did not enjoy that."

She laughed. "He did not," she confirmed, "But our behaviour is what makes us humans, not our dress. Is the human body not the work of God Himself? It is made in His own image; all shapes, all sizes, all are beautiful and natural."

Dean appeared to consider that. "Beautiful, and natural. Why, Captain, you are a most progressive thinker. 'Skyclad', eh?"

"A word from the peoples of my homelands," she told him, "For though I was raised in the Faith of Mother Church, yet my own mother made sure to educate me in the ways and traditions of my ancestors. They believed that going into battle skyclad would enhance the strength they derived from the patronage of their earth gods."

"Well, fancy," murmured Dean.

At that moment, George joined them. "Truly you are grubby, Captain Winchester," she proclaimed, "And I have determined that there be aboard this ship facility for you to take a bath, in the fashion that you prefer. I have taken the liberty of preparing the hot water." Her face became stern. "It is not healthy for the pores to be blocked by filth. And cleanliness is next to Godliness. Or so a churchman will say about a hundred years from now."

"Ah, George," Dean smiled, "What would I do without you to be so solicitous of my health?"

"And do your laundry," she eyed his filthy clothes meaningfully.

"Do you go and wash," Ronnie waved a hand, "Then I will not have to smell you."

"I count myself blessed to have a crew member who dotes on my health so diligently," Dean smiled happily at George, "And I shall do as you suggest."

Shortly after that, he was sitting in the conveniently available wooden tub, whistling cheerfully as he scrubbed at his lithe, tanned body, lathering up in a most attractive fashion and smiling gratefully as George reappeared time and again to douse him with more clean water. She picked up his clothes, tutting over how dirty they were, and told him that she would get straight to laundering them, immediately, just as soon as she had done one or two little urgent chores, no, really, they would be ready in no time at all. Smiling, she handed him his towel as he emerged from his bath, and left.

Dean dried himself off, unsure as to what he was to do – after all, he had come aboard with naught but the clothes on his back. Unexpectedly, he recalled a lecture from his brother on the propriety of observing local customs and mores when visiting any foreign place; Sam had hectored him about the importance of fitting in with an unfamiliar culture, so as not to give offence. 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do' he had instructed, along with one of his Pruneface Of Disapproval expressions.

Making a decision, Dean dropped his towel in the tub, and headed back out on deck to assist with the mast.

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Work on rigging the new mast continued until the fading light rendered it unsafe, at which time the captain sent her crew to a meal of good meat and plenty of grog and then to their hammocks, for they had worked hard, leaving but a skeleton crew to man the ship during the night.

She stood at the stern of her ship, gazing over the flat sea in the darkness, watching the scudding clouds block the stars. They were running out of time. To save Sam, to offer him the choice to renounce his werewolf aspect, they were running out of time. And becalmed in the tropics, they were not going anywhere.

Unseen by anyone, not even the lookout in the crow's nest, she leaned on the gunwales, and raised her voice in a quiet but musical chant that carried over the water.

A few moments went by, and then the water below her began to stir.

She waited patiently; some time later, the ocean churned, as if sharks were in a feeding frenzy upon a dead whale, then the foaming spume whirled, rose, and coalesced, resolving into the figure of a tall woman with braided hair, wearing a garment with a detailed pattern of netting, who drifted aloft until she could step onto the deck.

Ronnie bowed formally and deeply. "Lady."

The figure before her drifted closer, towering over her, and spoke with a voice that sounded as if it issued from deep water. "Why do you summon me, little wolf-witch?"

"I do not," Ronnie replied reasonably, "Nobody may summon you, Lady. They may make petition, but no mortal may compel you."

" _None_ may compel me!" the figure hissed. "None may compel Ran!"

"I certainly may not," Ronnie observed calmly. "And yet here you are."

The tall foam-woman bent down to scrutinise the scarred face. "It may amuse me," she said, "To hear your petition. Or to sink your ship, I know not yet."

"I seek your aid, Lady," Ronnie said.

"You wish to catch a man?" the goddess's mouth quirked into a cruel smile. "You wish to borrow my net, for such as you are, you will need all the assistance you can get."

"A ship, Lady," Ronnie continued, ignoring the barb, "I wish to catch a ship."

"You have one already," observed the sea deity, "Why another? Are you turned greedy pirate now?"

"I seek to catch up with a ship," Ronnie corrected, "Not to plunder, but to save a life."

The coldly beautiful face formed into an expression of amusement. "A life, is it? Why would you do this? And why would I help?"

Ronnie considered that. "I have an... obligation," she said finally, "To a member of... my pack." She stared back fearlessly. "And in doing so, I may... amuse you."

The goddess laughed. "You have sent me many offerings before now," she noted thoughtfully.

"Never willingly!" Ronnie snapped. "I do not do murder to curry your favour, madam!"

" _Uff_ , such manners," observed the sea lady drily, "But you are right in that at least, little wolf-witch, you and your motley crew do provide diversion. So, a life, then." She peered down her aristocratic nose. "What is the worth of a life?"

"I cannot say," Ronnie shrugged, "Some would accord it a price in gold or jewels, but I cannot. I do not. A life is a life."

"An honest answer," mused Ran, bending down to stare directly into the mortal woman's face. "And a brave one, child."

"A necessary one," Ronnie corrected, staring right back.

"You are no fool, then."

"Indeed I am not, Lady."

"And so we understand each other." The goddess straightened, seemingly thoughtful. "Very well, offer me a token of your... affection and esteem, and perhaps I shall consider your... petition."

Ronnie bowed again. "I thank you, Lady."

The figure smiled imperiously, then suddenly collapsed, leaving nothing but an expanding pool of water on the deck.

Taking a deep breath, Ronnie fished down the front of her shirt, and removed a small item she wore there on a chain. A cheap piece of jewellery, plain and battered, tarnished with time.

Her mother's wedding ring.

Looping it over her head, she dropped it over the side, then returned to her cabin without looking back.

* * *

What is Ronnie up to? How long will it take George to wash Dean's clothes? Or will he just 'go native'? Send Miranda tasty reviews to find out!


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Sam woke in his bunk at dawn as was his habit, peeked briefly below it to make sure there were no naughty ladies hiding thereunder, then yawned, stretched, and dressed, resolving to insist that the dreadful wenches put more buttons on his next shirt and more room in his next trousers, then went out on deck to watch the sun rise, the light breeze ruffling his man-mane and flapping his shirt open like an indiscreet fangirl with no regard for personal space. He had much to think about.

He had generally always been able to determine whether a person was lying or not – the crew of the _Impala_ had sometimes joked with him that he should go ashore and apply to the Temple, for he would make a formidable lawyer – and he was quite certain that Captain Godson, the man who owned the name Lucifer, had not told him any lies. Not by commission, at any rate; he had been entirely frank.

However, lying by truthful omission was another thing entirely; Sam had practised it quite extensively on his father as a younger man. And in truth, there was something about the captain that unsettled him; Sam suspected that, were he to suddenly assume his wolf form, his hackles would go up and his ears would flatten. He tried, as a rule, not to pay attention to irrational personal reactions to people, but in this case, he found it difficult.

After sunrise, Ranger brought his breakfast, then he sent her on her way by making a Pruneface Of Disapproval at her until she sighed happily and withdrew, hopefully to pass on the message about improvements to the garments that were supposedly in progress. Why he should inspire obedience and deference in the crew of the _Perdition_ , yet nothing but forward naughtiness in the haberdashing harridans of his adoring coterie, was a mystery he could not fathom. He then resumed his exploration of the _Perdition_ , heading for the holds, for he had found that the state of a ship below the waterline could reveal much about the care with which she was maintained and sailed.

He had to admit himself impressed: the orlop of any ship was always somewhat dank, but it was minimal, and the stored lines, masts and timbers were tidily squared and stored, the ballast neatly stacked and kept, the bilge pumps showing signs of recent and regular usage. Captain Godson could not be faulted for maintenance of his ship, and discipline in his crew.

But it was the cargo that made his jaw drop.

His human senses would have been able to tell him that the hold was tidily and tightly packed with an assortment of luxury goods: many spices, fine silks, medicinal plants, scents and perfumes, all of which suggested that the _Perdition_ was not afraid to sail the most treacherous routes of the globe, to brave shipwrecking storms, Spanish men-o'-war and Barbary pirates to trade in the most distant and exotic locations known to mariners. He thought he recognised cinnamon, and cardamom, so rare and expensive that he had only ever encountered them once, as well as the highly fashionable and desirable cacao. The cargo alone was worth a king's ransom.

And then, there were the strongboxes.

His wolf's nose told him immediately what they contained: the clean top notes of gold mingled with the acrid, stinging stench of silver, and the earthy crystalline scent of precious jewels.

The captain of any ship kept a strongbox in his cabin, himself the only holder of the key, unless he trusted his First Mate and Quartermaster with their own, as did his brother. But these, these were like nothing he had ever seen.

There were so many of them, build of stout South American wood and bound with what he believed to be Toledo steel, massive locks in place. And they were _huge_.

He changed his mind about a king's ransom – the contents of the hold would be enough to buy the entire Royal family, complete with mistresses and illegitimate children. Possibly more than once.

It would take one man more than a lifetime to accrue such wealth via honourable means. It would take the most ruthless pirate more than a mortal lifetime to accrue it. Unless he had been bequeathed a vast fortune, but Lucifer had already made it plain that he was not his father's heir, and in no wise enjoyed his father's favour.

It was a puzzle. Sam did not like unsolved puzzles.

Mulling over his discoveries, Sam's next foray saw him venture to the gun deck. His practised eye noted the calibre of the weapons, and the quality of the casting – Venetian, if he was any judge – which made sense, for a ship carrying the cargo of the _Perdition_ would be a juicy prize to any freebooter, no matter his flag. Whilst examining one of the pieces, and frowning to himself because he thought the maintenance of the carriage could be better done, the sound of voices raised in argument came to him. Curious, he moved fo'ard.

"It won't work, I'm telling you, you knuckle-headed baboon!"

"Well brute strength has failed us so far; what do you suggest, we get the Old Man to perform a levitation spell?"

"Don't even jest about it, he'd flay our hides for that bit of boldness spoken aloud!"

"Well, what do you suggest, petition him to summon another storm, and heel the ship t'other way this time?"

"Don't make jokes like that! It isn't funny! Look, a block is our only hope, more than one rig, maybe..."

"Oh, by the hairy balls of Moses, how many times do I have to tell you? We tried it, and it WON'T WORK! The cleat is only as good as the timber! We'll just end up dropping it through the fucking deck, you whoreson!"

"Well if you have a better idea, you scaly-dicked spawn of a rabid goat, by all means speak your piece, otherwise shut the fuck up!"

He ducked under a timber, and beheld a group of crewmen clustered around a cannon. The weapon was on its side, still seated in the cradle of its gun carriage, but apparently otherwise unsecured.

Sam was immediately angered by the carelessness. "What is this?" he demanded without preamble.

Jumping with fright, the crew respectfully tugged their caps. "Uh, an accident, sir," one of them replied, "She rolled in the storm, three days past, and, well, you can see she's a big 'un, sir..."

"Yes, yes," Sam snapped. "You are the gun crew? What is your name?"

"Aye, sir," one of them removed his cap, "I'm Brady, sir."

"Well for a start, Brady, hand me that line, so that we might at least secure it to the carriage, lest we hit a trough and be rolled flat like pastry for Satan's own pie."

He quickly had the piece lashed to the carriage, then he stood, glaring at them. "So, is there a reason that this weapon is on its side?"

"Aye, sir," offered another man in a helpful tone, "She fell over."

Sam gave him a ruthless Pruneface Of Disapproval that made the fellow quail.

"Er, I think what you're asking, sir," Brady cut in, "Is, why is she still not upright, back upon her carriage. Trouble is, we tried a block, but it just pulled out the cleats." He indicated the damaged timber overhead. "She's too big for it, you see. She might not look large, but she's a real heavy hitter, sir."

"Indeed." Sam considered the problem. "Have you tried levers?" The answer was blank stares. Hanging on tightly to his waning patience, he started to issue orders. "Right. You, get this carriage wedged, fore and aft, and all wheels. You two, find the carpenter and the smith, tell them Lientenant Winchester presents his compliments and will they furnish you with four lengths of the stoutest timber and strongest long irons the ship can furnish. You, we need more wedges..."

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Dean emerged from the bunk he had been assigned, and immediately went looking for George to enquire as to the progress of his laundry. She assured him that she would get right to it as soon as she had completed the morning chores of the galley. He considered borrowing some clothing, but the day was already balmy, and he felt strangely at ease with the feel of the warm air on his bare skin, which he had not experienced since he was a small boy, running around his father's ship without a stitch on, like a mischievous monkey under the watchful eyes of the doting crew. He suspected that it would bring out his freckles, but dismissed the thought, for Mistress Amanda had once told him that they made him look boyishly handsome and utterly adorable, and possibly even more irresistible.

He took his breakfast on deck, watching the final rigging of the replaced foremast, and nobody paid one jot of attention to his state of undress, which many of the crew shared, including their captain. Indeed, he thought, if one cannot defeat them, one might as well become one of them...

"The _Perdition_ has altered her course," said the captain's voice behind him, "I infer that she is still headed for the same destination, the Caribbean, but will reach port sooner, given the tendencies of current and tide she heads into."

"I would wager that is Sam's doing," Dean commented, "For he was ever able to plot a course of improved efficiency, often to the chagrin of our father." He bit his lip thoughtfully, looking handsomely worried. "Surely what Lucifer plans to do, he must do before they make landfall, else Sam will seek to leave his ship?"

A ragged cheer went up as Douglas the carpenter called a halt to the block and tackle crew, signalling that the final shroud was tensioned. Dean raised his tankard in salute.

"Aye," Ronnie agreed grimly, "Which is why we must make all haste. Come aft." She headed sternward, calling orders to unfurl and ease sail as she went. Dean was somewhat perplexed to see the crew rush to carry out the instructions, though there was no weather for the sails to catch.

"I appreciate that you would make haste to aid my brother," Dean told her, somewhat mystified, "But more canvas will help not at all if we have no wind."

"That is true, just now," she agreed, putting a hand to the wheel, "But we must be prepared, must we not?"

As she spoke, Dean felt a slight tug of breeze ruffle his hair, a warm draft against his tanned skin. He thought he had imagined it, but he heard the rustling of canvas, then the crackling snap and the creaking of lines as they filled with the stiffening wind.

His jaw dropped open. "I don't believe it! Captain, is this... could you smell the weather changing?"

"Something like that," she replied with a small smile, giving the wheel a fond pat. "Have hope, Captain Winchester. She is not the _Impala_ , I grant you, but given her head, and the right conditions, this old girl can run."

"Uh," he looked up, amazed at how rapidly the wind was gaining strength, yet concerned, "This be not my ship, but, with such a blow arising, be it wise to have so much sail unfurled? For I have seen the power of the wind, and have known an unwary skipper to see his ship dismasted by too ambitious a deployment of canvas..."

Suddenly, he felt an unfamiliar force push the deck under his feet, adding its strength to the surging momentum of the ship. It gave a disquieting impression of power and speed, something just this side of dangerous. He leaped to the gunwales, and looked over the side.

"We have a current!" he called, as a wave of spray surged over him, "We are being horsed!"

"Indeed we are!" Ronnie answered, renewing her grasp on the wheel.

"I have known this, but on few occasions," he went on, marvelling at the speed the ship was travelling at, "And never so strong as this! It could be dangerous!"

"Of course it is dangerous!" she snapped back, grimacing, "The power of the sea is always dangerous! But use it I shall! Now, lend me your aid with the helm, for we may have a rough ride ahead, and we must hold our course!"

Between them, they steadied the ship, keeping her on heading. A few minutes into the unexpected weather, Gabriel emerged, his expression a combination of anger, and despair.

"Ronnie," he almost whispered, "Dear God, what have you done?"

She gazed at him with a steely expression. "I have set my course," she told him firmly, "And will see it through. Now, either assist the crew, or begone."

She ignored Dean's questioning glance as the _She-Wolf_ , driven by wind and water, plunged headlong through the waves, in pursuit of her prey.

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It was Chaddie, the ship's cat, who noticed it first.

One moment, she was curled contentedly at the foot of Bobby's bunk, her preferred snoozing spot in the hours of darkness when she was not prowling the ship, patrolling for rodents, or on guard against any of the unearthly incursions around which cats may spin their toils and weave their spells. Then suddenly, she was awake, ears flat, and growling.

The unexpected noise woke Bobby, who was only dozing so close to sunrise. He frowned, and sat up. "What is it, missy?" he asked the cat, leaning in to scratch her chin. She turned, and opened her mouth to hiss, showing her fangs to something he couldn't see. "God's tits, what's got your corset in a bunch this mornin'?..."

She hissed again, and then he felt it: a sudden surge, making the timbers groan and the sails creak. Cursing under his breath, he dressed quickly and went to find Castiel.

The acting captain had tumbled out of bed also, and was at the helm, concern all over his face. "This is most unusual," he began without preamble, "We have picked up a strong wind, and a current. Or, more accurately, we have been picked up by a current. Not unknown in these latitudes..."

"Bein' horsed," Bobby nodded, consulting the compass. "I've seen it before, a few times, but I'm blowed if it's ever been this strong. Damn, it's takin' us off our heading..."

"I do not like this," Castiel muttered, looking up as the sails pulled taut in the increasing wind, "This weather, this current, they have come from nowhere."

"The _She-Wolf_ has altered course," announced Master Jaeger suddenly, appearing as if out of nowhere as was his wont, "And we must now follow suit."

Castiel's eyes narrowed as the Master gave him an adjustment to the heading. "And so this unexpected phenomenon assists us," he muttered, "I like it not."

"Chaddie aint impressed, neither," Bobby informed him, "And if a ship's cat aint impressed with somethin' you better be on your guard about it."

"Bugger! Bugger! Bollocks!" came the squawk from the rigging as Crowley the parrot flapped in agitation. "You eat the damned cracker, dickhead."

Castiel almost smiled. "It would seem that Crowley is also entirely underwhelmed," he noted, "And yet it takes us towards our quarry with increased speed. We cannot avoid it, and if it pose no hazard to the ship and crew, I would take advantage."

"No hazard to the physical, anyways," Bobby muttered unhappily, "But I aint answerin' for their souls."

"I will have no talk like that in front of the crew," Castiel stipulated firmly, looking ahead, "We will hold our course, and continue with our plan to close with the _She-Wolf_..."

There was a sudden extra-loud squawk above them, as suddenly, Crowley was whisked away by a strong gust of wind.

"BOLLOCKS!"

"Ah well," Castiel shrugged philosophically, "They do say that it's an ill wind that blows no good – mayhap this wind is not entirely ill after all."

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Through the contrivance of cunningly deployed leverage, multiple securing lines, wedges of increasing size and a lot of swearing (upon which Sam mused idly that Dean probably never suspected that his well-mannered baby brother knew such words), the toppled cannon was gradually brought upright. Sam himself took one of the arresting lines, shoulders straining and arms cording, until she hit her tipping point; wheels locked and carriage immobilised, it teetered for an agonising moment, then fell into the cradle of rigging he'd devised, settled upright on the carriage, and was lowered gently to the deck.

"That were a cunning design, sir," smiled Brady, inspecting the weapon, "I'm right relieved to have the old girl back on her feet."

Sam smiled; gun crews often regarded their pieces as if they were adored pets. He could only imagine the horrified shrieking that L'Orleano would emit had he seen a cannon so mistreated. "What do you call her?"

Brady's smile broadened. "This is Lilith, sir," he replied, "And a fine beast, so she is. Why, even for her size, you would never think she could pack such a punch as she does."

"Whatever was it... was she doing unsecure in a storm?" asked Sam. "Is your seamanship so lax?"

"Oh, sir, she were run out," Brady explained, "We were firing, sir, got two shots off, and then, well..." he shrugged eloquently.

"You were firing? In such weather?" Sam looked stunned. "But..." The implication of that piece of information sank in.

"Captain's orders, sir," Brady shrugged. "The Old Man orders us to fire, we fire, sir." The others nodded grimly.

"I see." Schooling his face into calm neutrality, Sam nodded. "You did right, of course," he assured them, "Given an order, you must follow it. There are some lashings that can be used to steady a piece if it be necessary to run out in rough weather; if Captain Godson permits it, I will school you accordingly."

The gun crew touched their caps, and with a curt nod of acknowledgement, he left.

The moment he was above deck, he was assailed once more.

"Oh, you were magnificent!" declaed MarieLee, "Terrible in your anger, and delectable in your exertion!"

"Should you feel you need sponging after your strenuous activities, I would be glad to help you," added Ranger happily.

"I find that I much enjoy this new association of your person," sighed Leeliz, "And of many interesting ways of lashing something down securely so that it cannot move..."

"Avast, naughty ladies!" he yapped, "Have you yet completed my new shirt, and roomier trousers?"

"Indeed we have," MarieLee confirmed, "So you may bathe, confident in the knowledge that you have clean clothing for afterwards."

"Unfortunately," muttered Leeliz.

"I have taken the liberty of preparing a tub for you," Ranger went on, "And we will take turns at bringing you buckets of fresh hot water!"

"And offering to scrub your back!" added Leeliz, clapping in delight.

"Begone, pervy persons of lewd and cheeky inclination!" he instructed, "I shall not need your assistance!" They curtsied and left, making disappointed noises.

He retired to his cabin, where a tub was waiting for him, and his new clothes were on his bunk. He locked the door behind him.

"And don't try to peek, because I shall remove the key and hang something over the keyhole!" he shouted through the wood.

"Spoilsport," came the muttered comment.

Satisfied that they would not try to dangle each other overboard to peer in through the porthole and gaze upon his firm manly physique, he undressed, and lowered himself into the hot water, thoughts churning in his mind.

The _Perdition_ had fired on the _She-Wolf_ , not the _Impala_. Whilst the information comforted him, it also disquieted him. Why would any captain risk such an attack in such dangerous weather? Surely, only a great prize, one of enormous worth, would warrant such a risk to ship and crew...

 _Well, what do you suggest, petition him to summon another storm, and heel the ship t'other way this time?_

Had Lucifer truly conjured a storm? He had heard of such arcane arts, but shuddered even to contemplate them; what cost to a man's soul?

He would have to keep his wits about him, and his knowledge concealed.

Oh, and find a way to hide his beastly side, when the first night of the full moon arrived.

After his bath, Sam donned his new clothes, wondering if the dreaded beldames had actually obtained permission before their apparent raid on the ship's cargo of fine fabrics.

His new trousers, sewn from fine leather material that had a distinct tendency to cling to the contours of his body, were at least no tighter.

And his shirt, fashioned from what appeared to be dark blue silk, had no ruffles.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem to have any sleeves, either.

He sighed, thinking that he'd rather swap clothing with his brother right there and then; Dean could have a taste for clothing that showed his physique to best advantage, but whatever his big brother was wearing right at that moment would surely be preferable.

* * *

Poor Brady - maybe he's the Perdition's answer to Becky: he exists only to be tossed overboard for the amusement of his crew.

I wonder what AU Fashiondesigner!Sam would have to say about Nauticalwerewolf!Sam's outfit? He'd probably tut about failure to accessorise, or something. What he'd have to say about Dean's *ahem* sartorial selection would be interesting.

Feed Dirty Miranda lovely tasty reviews, and let's see what - or who - happens next!


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Mulling over the maps and charts, Sam found that his mind was only half on his slide rule, and more entirely on his situation. The offer of a senior commission, plus command of the ship when her current skipper deceased, was an astonishing opportunity. The _Perdition_ was a good ship, certainly older than he had first assumed, but well-made and maintained. Her crew were respectful, and competent enough, though there was room for improvement. The captain himself was an intelligent and interesting man, who seemed quite content to make himself scarce and delegate, and allow Sam licence that would not normally be expected by any First Mate. But if he was actually captain, he would truly have a free hand to do as he saw fit.

And yet...

He swore quietly, cursing that part of himself that could not believe that fortune would possibly smile on him to this extent. But why not? There were those who were born to a life of privilege and opportunity – Sam had encountered many of them during his Navy service, and an overwhelmingly common factor was a complete ease with their good fortune. Rarely did any of them pause to reflect on whether they deserved it. Who was to say that the Fates had not, according to the random design of Providence, smiled upon Sam Winchester?

 _If it seems too good to be true, boy, then it probably is._

Dean had a description for what Sam was experiencing: he described it as 'waiting for the other boot to drop'.

He would have to make his decision quickly, for with his replotting of their course, they would be in Port Royal in but a few days at most. Rationally, there was no question of what the sensible choice should be: he should seize the opportunity with gratitude.

Why then did he hesitate over some strange feeling that some vital part of information was missing?

Perhaps he could agree to undertake the _Perdition_ 's next voyage in the capacity of First Mate, and see how that arrangement suited him: he could find a way to send word to his brother that he was safe, and if he decided that the arrangement did not suit him, he could return to the Navy and explain that he had made his way back as expediently as possible, and resume his commission.

Satisfied with the idea of suggesting this compromise, he went to find the man called Lucifer.

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"You can save yourself the trouble, Captain Winchester."

Dean lowered the spyglass and looked down from his perch above the bowsprit; Gabriel was peering up at him with an amused expression. "Wolf eyes will spot my brother's vessel long before your human ones," the smaller man went on, jerking a thumb upwards to indicate the crew member perched aloft the main mast, "God willing, we shall see her before she notices us."

"Well and good," humphed Dean, clambering lithely back down to the deck, "But I am at a loss as to how we are to approach her undetected."

"We'll have to see what the Old Woman has up her sleeve. Figuratively speaking, I mean," Gabriel qualified, given that Ronnie, like Dean and a large part of the crew, had felt no urge to don clothing yet, despite the stiff breeze powering the ship along – Dean hoped that it would mean that his laundry would dry quickly, although George seemed to be taking an awful long time in getting around to doing it.

"What, she has some strategy for rendering her own ship invisible?" Dean shook his head and chuckled, "Perhaps she will conjure us a cloud in which to travel?"

Gabriel's face immediately became wary. "That is not funny," he muttered.

"No, apparently, it is not," Dean noted, studying the other's face. "What meant you when, earlier, you demanded of your Captain an explanation of her actions? 'What have you done?', you said."

Gabriel turned away and leaned on the gunwales, gazing down at the sea. The water churned and frothed as the _She-Wolf_ was driven along at speed by wind and current. "Our captain is descended from... peoples steeped in pagan mythologies from well before the coming of Christ," he began, "And though those lands now worship the God of Moses, yet not all of their inhabitants forget their earlier ways and traditions." His face was a picture of misery when he turned back to Dean. "Her own mother was a powerful practitioner of wielding such power."

"She told me as much," Dean nodded, "And also that she herself, whilst granted that talent by heredity, nonetheless had not applied the study and practice to become truly proficient."

"No virtuoso, granted," Gabriel agreed, "But... if I speak frankly, Captain Winchester, I fear that, in her determination to rescue Sam, mayhap she has done something godless..."

He was interrupted by a sudden _thwap_ , then screeching, as something small and fast collided with a sail then slid gracelessly to the deck.

"What the fuck was that?" yelped Gabriel, looking around anxiously, "Are we under attack?"

Dean smiled a slow smile. "Not exactly," he replied, reaching down to retrieve the small bundle that had apparently been blown right into the sail. "Although you may change your mind about that, once he starts to..."

"BOLLOCKS!"

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The captain was not at the helm, nor was he to be found on deck, and so Sam headed for his cabin. He knocked, but received no reply.

"Captain? Captain Godson?"

The door opened under his hand, and so he stepped inside.

It was tidy as ever, the table cleared except for a couple of small items including a very good quality mirror – Sam had already decided privately that the captain had a streak of vanity to rival a Spanish pirate – but otherwise unremarkable. The only thing he did not recognise was the large heavily bound book. Curious, he opened it.

It was not like any book he had ever seen before: it was a combination of journal, almanac, and other passages, some in Greek (which he did not read) and some in Latin (which, thanks to Quartermaster Singer, he did, much to the astonishment of many of his seniors and supposedly social betters). He recognised the captain's careful copperplate script from the navigation logs. There were phrases that he was familiar with in biblical context: _ad vitam aeternem_ , towards eternal live, _tempus edat rerum_ , time, that devours all things, but also others that puzzled him: _scientica imperium est_ (knowledge is power) and _victoria aut mors_ (success or death) seemed out of place in such an idiom.

But it was the dates that astonished him; if the book was truly the work of Captain Godson, then the man was older – much older – than he looked, even if his diseased body was failing.

Sam felt as though his hackles were trying to rise once more. It was becoming harder to ignore the way that his wolf-self was telling him that it was time to fight or run.

Feeling decidedly uneasy, he headed back to his own cabin. He had much to think on.

And he wanted to see if those naughty ladies had finished laundering his other trousers, and perhaps putting some more buttons on his shirt.

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"You know this creature?" asked Gabriel, eyeing the squawking parrot warily.

"Aye," grinned Dean, "He is from my ship, the _Impala_."

"Is he always this rude?"

"Oh no," Dean smiled, "Usually he is much more vulgar than this."

"Bollocks!" Crowley screeched at Gabriel. "Bollocks, bitch! You eat the damned cracker! Piss off!"

Gabriel looked sternward. "Then that means..."

"She is not far behind us," nodded Dean, "No doubt Castiel is intent on pursuing the _She-Wolf_ to complete the rescue of my brother Sam, even as he believes me lost to the deep..."

A howl sounded from the crow's nest.

"He's spotted her," Gabriel translated grimly, "The look-out had spotted the _Perdition_."

"Then we must hurry," Dean snapped, "We must inform the captain, and then I will need your assistance with this wretched bird..."

"Hello sailor, drop yer rompers, you bitch!"

"I believe she is already informed," stated Gabriel, nodding to where the captain was striding towards the bow, a determined expression upon her face.

"Gentlemen," she nodded briefly, "I bid you give me space for what I must do."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What be you plotting, Captain Shepherd?"

The smile she gave him was bright and confident. "Oh, I'm sure that Gabriel will inform you that I am dabbling in occult forces and imperilling my very soul," she told him smilingly, "But for a very good cause."

"It is most unamusing, but I know that I will not dissuade you," Gabriel humphed, "Come with me, Captain Winchester, we shall attend to our own errand..."

Heading aft to the castle, Dean turned back briefly to see Ronnie raise her arms and begin an ululating chant in what he assumed was her native tongue. His eyes widened as noticed the wisps of mist beginning to gather to starboard.

"Best just leave her to it," sighed Gabriel, "Now, what do you require of me?"

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To his disappointment (but not surprise), Sam discovered that the seagoing seamstresses had not completed their washing. He was about to leave his cabin and find them, to remonstrate with them about their lack of laundering diligence, when his eye was caught by a something on the floor.

Bending down to check the particles, he realised that it was a small scattering of tiny wood shavings.

It had most definitely not been there when he had tidied his cabin and made up his bunk that morning; immediately, he hunkered down to examine the timber, for any sign of borer aboard a ship had to be taken seriously, so that the pests could be detected and eradicated as quickly as possible to minimise the damage. Although it was daylight, he lit the small glass lantern, and wiggled underneath his bunk, looking for the tell-tale signs of damage, and further evidence of frass.

Peering at the time-darkened timber, he was astonished to see not borer holes, but small letters, carefully carved into the wood, in neat lettering. Bringing the lantern nearer, he could read the Latin clearly:

 _Eram quod es; es quod ero._

A sudden shudder ran down Sam's spine.

 _I was what you are; what you are, I will be._

It had the ring, the feel of an incantation. Carved in the captain's distinctive hand.

Sam felt himself baring his teeth again. _If you cannot run, then be prepared to fight..._

Deep in thought, he went to find the naughty ladies in the hope of getting his other shirt and trousers back; he had an unhappy suspicion that in his newer clothes, he looked like a pantomime pirate.

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Dean and Gabriel stood at the gunwales, watching the wisps of vapour eddy, swirl and coalesce.

"What is this?" Dean asked uneasily.

"Camouflage, I think," Gabriel suggested.

"Of a sort, perhaps," commented the voice of Doctor McGregor.

"Yikes!" Dean jumped at the sound, turning to see that the ship's vampire doctor had once more appeared silently, as if from nowhere. "God's death, man, must you sneak up on people so?"

"I suspect it is just one more aspect of my condition," sighed the doctor. "But as to this fog bank now conveniently forming twixt us and the _Perdition_ , I doubt it will act as true camouflage; if this man styled Lucifer is half of what they say he is, then he will know immediately that something approaches his vessel."

"It is the best I can do," announced the captain grumpily as she joined them. "The doctor is correct – if Lucifer has any facility in the Craft, he will be suspicious; but if nothing else, it will allow us to close with him before he can identify what approaches, or why."

Dean's eyes bugged. "You did that?" he gestured to the forming fog bank.

"Aye, she did," Gabriel interrupted in an angry tone, "And more besides."

"Hold your tongue!" she hissed at him, "Lest I throw you overboard with Becky!"

She turned and began to issue orders; the deck erupted into a swarm of activity. Within minutes, the low rumbling coming to him through the deck told Dean that the gun crews were below, and running out cannon.

"Attend me in my cabin, Captain Winchester," Ronnie smiled grimly as the _She-Wolf_ sailed headlong into the fog, "Although I suggest that you dress first. Unless you have decided to go into this battle skyclad."

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Sam took his midday meal with Captain Godson. As usual, the captain was convivial company; he had Sam laughing hard as he related a story of a younger brother who acquired a trumpet, and was told by their father that he was most definitely not to try to play it indoors; when he did so, expensive windows in their father's study shattered, and rained glass down around the would-be musician.

"And I swear to you," the captain chuckled, "I swear to you, the child howled even louder that that wretched instrument! I tried to sweep up the glass, and the boy hid in my room for a whole day, aye, and I concocted a fabulous tale about a flock of wayward migrating birds, and even went so far as to procure some as evidence, scattering them about the floor, but Father just looked at the birds, and looked at me, and asked with a perfectly straight face what sort of swallow would be migrating in the middle of Summer, European or African..."

"Stop! Stop!" laughed Sam, "Before I break a rib!"

"Ah, me," Lucifer subsided, and poured himself and Sam some more wine. "It comforts me to know that I can recall some happy memories of home, for I do miss my family, as much as we might have quarrelled."

"I understand that," Sam sympathised.

"But enough of my past," Lucifer said dismissively, "I am, as you know, more concerned with the future. And so, you know I will ask it," Lucifer smiled warmly, "Have you given any more thought to my offer?"

"Indeed I have, Captain," Sam smiled back, "And still I marvel at it, for it is an incredibly generous offer."

Lucifer fixed him with a keen stare. "You are an incredibly talented young man," he declared, "And if you accept, I will be content in the knowledge that the _Perdition_ will be in suitable, safe hands."

"What will you do, Captain?" Sam asked earnestly, "If I agree to your proposition? What shall be the logistics of the arrangement?" When Lucifer quirked an eyebrow, he went on. "I would fain speculate on the... timing of your declining health, sir. And yet, if I am to accept your offer, I must have some... indication of a likely timeline."

"Ah, the young, always in a hurry," Lucifer chuckled again.

"I have no wish to be morbid sir, nor do I wish you an accelerated demise," Sam assured the older man quickly, "But I have seen the contents of your hold – you have a considerable fortune aboard. Are you planning to retire ashore in the Caribbean, or do you intend to return to Europe?"

A faint and fleeting trace of annoyance crossed Lucifer's crumbling features at Sam's failure to give immediate assent. "I find that the tropical climate is more agreeable to my declining health," he explained, "And so, as you have surmised, that is why I have sailed to the Caribbean. And if you agree to take over, why, I shall be glad to take this poor old body ashore, where it may rest from such labours."

Sam's face clouded. "Captain, I am not here to tell you your business," he began carefully, "But, well, Port Royal, I am sure that you well know already, it is a... lawless place. If you go ashore there, seeking a pleasant retirement, I would fear for your safety, and that of your goods, given what you have."

Lucifer's expression became threatening. "I assure you, Lieutenant, I have nothing to fear from Port Royal," he asserted, "In fact, I would describe it as the other way around. But fear not," he smiled easily again, "Once we are in port, this sad old carcass will trouble this ship no more."

Something about the unusual expression caused Sam to hesitate – now that he thought about it, the captain was in the habit of speaking about his physical body as if it was actually separate to his true self. "I was planning to ask you whether you would consider making trial of the arrangement before I give complete agreement," he began, "Of allowing me to act as your First Mate for your next voyage, which would also give you opportunity to make further trial of me, and satisfy yourself that I am as competent as you think..."

"I have made my decision!" Lucifer snapped, before subsiding. "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant," he sighed deeply, "Humour an old man, aye, older than I look, but I had truly set my hopes on seeing the _Perdition_ skippered by a younger, able-bodied captain..."

Sam smiled understandingly, although with a flash of insight he saw how angry Lucifer was at being thwarted.

"...And so I beg you to consider the offer. Please, say yes to me, Sam."

As Sam hovered on the brink of indecision, a call came from the deck.

A number of the crew were clustered at the gunwales on the port side, squinting into the distance. Sam found that his wolf eyes let him see what they could barely make out: a gathering bank of fog drift in their direction.

Lucifer unfolded his spyglass to inspect the strange meteorological manifestation. "Fog."

"Fog, sir?" Sam commented, wondering why the appearance of the mist would be cause to alert the captain and cause agitation to the crew. Unusual, certainly, though not unheard of in these waters."

A crew member approached them, touching his cap respectfully. "The lookout spotted it, sir," he told Lucifer, "We thought you should be told at once, 'acause it be so much like the ones you call up when we..."

With an angry snarl, Lucifer turned and backhanded the man, who scrabbled away.

Sam stared at the captain keenly. "Captain? What does he mean? 'The ones you call up', what means this man by that?"

Lucifer's face grew grim. "I had hoped that all would be made clear to you in good time," he said, "But it appears that is now a luxury I cannot afford. Something not entirely natural approaches us, Sam, and I must make haste to finalise matters."

"What?" Sam stared at the rolling cloud bank, seeing that it was definitely travelling rapidly, almost deliberately, in defiance of the prevailing conditions. "Unnatural? What matters? Captain, speak plainly, for I do not..."

A brief breath of wind stirred the air, blowing in from the direction of the fog bank, and Sam gasped as his wolf-self caught a trace of a scent he recognised.

The _She-Wolf_.

His mind raced. Why was Captain Shepherd sailing in haste towards the Perdition? And, if Lucifer was correct, using some occult phenomenon to mask her approach? The _She-Wolf_ was no pirate, why would she take such desperate measures just to raid another ship? It made no sense...

Unless she was intent on something other than piracy.

Say, for example, a rescue mission.

Captain Godson began barking orders, issuing commands to ready the ship to go into battle. Sam felt guns run out beneath his feet.

"Captain," he began, trying for a tone of good-natured bemusement, "Firing at fog will not achieve aught, save to deplete your powder..."

Without warning, the captain turned and brought his spyglass around hard against Sam's head. He heard the glass shatter, but then he was out cold before he hit the deck.

* * *

Oh noes! Sam in peril! And still a werewolf! Dean sailing to the rescue! And still in the buff! Hopefully he'll at least put on some trousers! But Lucifer knows they are coming! Sam's out cold! On the same ship as the naughty ladies! With barrels of chocolate for unwitting Winchesters to fall into on both ships! And I'm running out of exclamation marks! OH GOD WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT?! Feed Dirty Miranda the plot bunny reviews to find out!


	26. Chapter 26

This ludicrous excuse for a fic is getting ridiculous, but the end may just be hoving into sight! You know the drill, no readee if you haven't already done reviewee, or Dirty Miranda the purple pirate plot bunny will be sad...

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-Six**

Ronnie was dressed when Dean found her in her cabin. She took one look at him and raised an eyebrow.

"George says that my shirt is not dry yet," he said by way of explaining his state of shirtlessness, "And something about narrative causation that mitigates 'gainst my wearing of a shirt on account of a deficit of fanserviceability following a previous episode in which my tanned and manly physique was not mentioned once. Know you of what she speaks?"

"I am acquainted with the idiom, though I have no facility with such," Ronnie told him, "But 'tis a type of Secret Women's Business, upon which men ought not intrude. Be guided by George, for I am sure that she means it for the best, and in no way schemes to have you in a state of partial undress so that she may appreciate your lithe form as you stride about looking masculine and dangerous in a fashion that would appeal enormously to any ladies who were present to observe you. It's the, er, perky chest thing. They do seem to appreciate a good stiff breeze."

"That is well, then," nodded Dean, "Though I am grateful I at least have my trousers back, as no doubt any fickriter hereabouts would also be."

"But now, enough of pandering to readers with hints about your appearance and state of partial undress," Ronnie stated firmly. "What I must say to you is important. Shortly, we will close with the _Perdition_. Our hope lies in remaining obscured for as long as possible, but this man Lucifer will know that we are coming; if luck is with us, he may think that we are just another brigand seeking prey, but once he realises our design, he may take steps to accelerate his plan to..." she could not speak the words. "He will at the very least seek to blow us out of the water so that he may proceed undisturbed."

"I would not hang you for a witch, Captain, as you use your ability to noble ends," Dean said, "Is there any way in which you may use your Craft to thwart his evil intent?"

Ronnie's face became grim. "I am outmatched, Captain Winchester," she said bluntly, "Understand that – I am outmanned, outgunned, he is my superior in such matters. Should I attempt what you suggest, he would swat me like an insect."

"And yet, a small insect may sting," Dean pointed out, "And I have known a man to die from it."

"Aye, that may be," Ronnie snapped, "But it would be foolish to place trust in so unlikely an event. Nay, we must do this the traditional way, with steel, gunpowder and blood. Wherefore I say to you, let the crew of the _She-Wolf_ do the fighting..."

"I will take them on bare-fisted if need be!" Dean spat angrily, his top lip quivering in a petticoat-rustling manner.

"Will you hush and listen!" she hissed angrily, "Your task is to stay alive, and find your brother! Find Sam, and get him back aboard as soon as you can!" She turned to a battered sea chest and opened the lid. "I bid you take this, and make good use of it," she said, proffering a scabbard.

It was plain leather, unadorned, and well-worn with use. Dean took hold of the battered guard, and withdrew the blade a few inches. It was a cutlass, but unusually for such a blade it was sharpened on both sides. Curious, he took it from the scabbard.

The weapon sprang free with a clean singing note, and he was able to get a good look at it. It was not as broad in the blade as might be expected, but it had the weight of a larger sword; it would take skill and some strength to wield effectively, but so deployed it would be a beautifully deadly thing.

"This is a... remarkable weapon," he breathed, feeling the density of the steel.

"I call it Fang," she gave him a small smile as he inspected it, "And I forged it myself, many years ago, under the coaching of a man who spent years in the Orient, studying their ways of smithing weaponry. I judge you capable of wielding it."

"But if I carry this, what of yourself? Will you send me out with your own weapon, and go bladeless?"

She actually chuckled. "Oh, I suspect that for this fight, I will be better served by... other weaponry." She raised her hands, and allowed her hands to transform into the wolf's paws, complete with wicked looking claws. "I fear I shall need to assume my bestial aspect before this fight is done." Her smile became dangerous. "Besides, you have drawn Fang, and now you have drawn it, you must blood it."

Dean's smile became equally dangerous (and a lot more bodice-busting besides). "I promise you, Captain, I shall do exactly that."

"Capital." She fixed him with a steely stare. "And there is one more thing you must do."

"Must do?" he echoed with some amusement.

"Yes," she snapped, completely devoid of humour. "For I am in command here, and I will be obeyed by all aboard. Once you get your brother back aboard, if I am not able to do so, you must recall the crew, and get the _She-Wolf_ away from the _Perdition_ intact enough to stay afloat."

The amused smirk fell from Dean's face. "What? But surely you are not expecting to..."

"I expect nothing, and everything," she growled, "And plan for any contingency! If we must disengage from close quarters, Lucifer will stop at nothing to keep Sam! And if he fears he will not keep him, he sounds the type to send us to the bottom rather than lose his prize! This ship and her complement must be kept safe, and under such circumstances it will take a skilled commander to do so, therefore I tell you if needs must _you will do it_!" Her voice had risen in anger; she took a deep breath, visibly reining in her temper. "I am in command here, Winchester," she went on in a level voice, "I am Alpha, and I will be obeyed by all aboard, by my crew, by my First Mate, by that irritatingly rational and sensible doctor, and by you, do I make myself clear?"

His face fell as he nodded.

"Good. Then let us go on deck, for I suspect we will see action sooner rather than later."

She ducked out of her cabin, and Dean, looking every inch a rakish and handsome squee-inducing shirtless pirate, followed.

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Sam came to his senses slowly, his thoughts fuzzy, his head sore and his arms stiff and heavy. _Houndswort_ , he thought muzzily, _what I need right now is some of Captain Shepherd's capital houndswort infusion..._

He must've made some noise as he stirred. "Patience, lad," he heard Captain Godson's voice, "You have a hard head, and there will be no lasting damage done."

Sam blinked hard to clear his sight: he felt the itch of dried blood above one eye, but was unable to scratch it. As his senses cleared, he came to see that it was because both his wrists were expertly secured to the sides of the bunk. That realisation was like a bucket of ice water down the trousers for bringing him back to full clarity of thought.

Looking around, he could see that he was in the captain's cabin. He tested the ropes around his arms a couple of times, muscle cording and bunching in his magnificent biceps, but he was lashed fast as if the bindings had been secured by Mistress Amanda herself.

Oh, and his shirt was gone. Again.

He cleared his throat. "Captain, what is the meaning of this?" he asked as calmly as he could.

The captain turned from his desk, and gave Sam a small smile. "I am sorry about that," he said, indicating the shredded fabric on the floor, "But they seemed to be terribly keen on the sponging thing. There are three of them, and I'm afraid that in their eagerness to tend to your abrasions they tore the damned thing right off your back before I could stop them..."

"No, no, no!" Sam snapped, sighing inwardly at the relentlessness of the naughty ladies to tend to his health and well-being and at the same time being extremely grateful that he was at least still wearing his trousers, "What I mean is, why am I held prisoner like this?" He glanced worriedly at the door.

"Don't worry, it's locked," the captain assured him, "They will not get in here except upon your say-so, if you enjoy that sort of thing."

"Good grief, I am lashed to a bunk like a bale of wool in a hold, for what purpose I know not, and you think that right now my thoughts are concerned with... _that_?" yelped Sam.

"I make no judgement on the preferences of others, where there is informed consent," Lucifer shrugged, "And in truth, I do know some individuals who would much enjoy being in your position and entertaining the attentions of three such cheerfully and willingly attentive wenches. I could stipulate one at a time, if you prefer, and they could draw lots..." Sam let out a small noise of horror. "Don't knock it until you've tried it, is all I'm saying," he added.

Sam felt himself starting to growl. "Captain, what the fuck is going on?"

Lucifer looked thoughtful. "Events have... overtaken me," he eventually said, "My body is failing, your... inquisitiveness is most inconvenient, and so I must hurry forward with my plan."

"What plan?"

"To secure the command of the _Perdition_ ," Lucifer said, with a small roll of his eyes, "I have explained it to you."

"In most careful language, I have noticed, and am hardly likely to agree to anything under these circumstances," Sam snapped, testing the ropes once again to good effect upon his marvelously buff appearance but to no practical avail.

"That is true," sighed Lucifer, "Which will make the spell more difficult, and may compromise the result."

"Spell?" Sam queried, his blood suddenly running cold and the feeling of rising hackles crawling up his back, "Spell? Captain, are you intent upon some ungodly working? Dear God, man, am I to be some sort of, what, sacrifice to an unholy cause?"

"Not exactly," Lucifer grinned, "I shall need a small amount of your blood, but as little as possible, for your body will be no good to me if it bleeds out and drops dead."

"My..." Sam's mouth dropped open in bemused alarm. "What exactly is your design here?"

"I have told you," Lucifer sounded somewhat irritated, "This body is failing me. This vessel must have a younger man, of rude good health, to command her. A man like my own self, a man who is, in his own fashion, after my own heart..."

An awful insight washed over Sam.

 _I was what you are; what you are, I will be._

In a horrible moment of clarity, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

"I am nothing like you!" he shouted, "I would never seek to, to, to steal the life of another to prolong my own!"

"And yet, you are alike enough," Lucifer pointed out serenely, "And though your agreement would assure the success of this enterprise..."

'Never! NEVER!" Sam shouted, quivering with magnificently manly defiance and disdain, "I WILL NEVER AGREE! I WILL NEVER AID YOU, YOU GODLESS HERETIC!" He glared up at Lucifer. "You are cursed, Lucifer, cursed by your own selfishness and arrogance, and whatever rots your body is rooted in the depravity and sin you embrace!" Lucifer scowled, but Sam's temper had its head. "No wonder your father and brother drove you out," he added loudly and spitefully, "For you would be a disgusting disgrace and shame to any God-fearing family with a shred of decency to its name!"

With a roar of anger, Lucifer drew back a hand; the blow snapped Sam's head back, leaving his ears ringing and his nose bleeding, but he just continued to sneer at Lucifer. "You are a coward, Lucifer," he rasped, "A thief, and a coward, and you have surely damned yourself."

Lucifer chuckled. "My, Sam Winchester, what a big voice you have," he noted. "Must I gag you also just to keep the noise down?" He considered the matter, then retrieved a scrap of shredded shirt from the floor. "Yes, I do believe that those three wenches would enjoy this package quite a lot..."

Reduced by the gag to glaring angrily, Sam treated Lucifer to a scowl so intense that it was a wonder the other man's clothing did not burst into flame.

"At the very least, a compromised working will buy me some time." Lucifer straigtened up. "But I need time, and concentration, to complete this," he indicated the clutter on the small desk with a careless gesture, "And a threat approaches. Whatever it is, the _Perdition_ will deal with it. So, sit tight, Lieutenant," he offered the malevolent grin once more. "I promise you, I shall secure the door. Although," he looked thoughtful, "Perhaps later, after the ritual, I shall unlock it, and find out just exactly what those naughty ladies would like to do with that body..."

Leaving Sam spluttering in impotent yet strangely attractive outrage, he left the cabin.

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The deck of the _She-Wolf_ was eerily quiet as the crew waited; they powered along on the strange current, the wind filling the sails, shrouded in the fog bank. The fluttering of the _She-Wolf's_ colours, the wolf's head flag, snapping in the breeze was the loudest sound aboard.

Dean saw Gabriel sitting on the fo'c'sle, back to the foremast, a resigned look on his face. "Should you not be hiding in the brig?" he asked, only half joking.

"If I thought it would render me any advantage, I would be there now," the smaller man sighed, "But I am starting to think that there are some fights one just cannot run from. See how I have been running from this fight for a very long time, and yet... here I am."

Dean leaned against the mast. "Gabriel, what fear you the captain has done? You said 'something godless', earlier."

"It matters not now," Gabriel snapped, his expression somewhat miserable, "What is done is done, and we must make or mar with it."

"I ask, because I have had a most unexpected conversation, nay, unexpected instruction from your mistress and commander." Dean went on to relay his exchange with the captain, and was taken aback to see the other's eyes fill with tears.

"She has done it, then," he sniffled quietly. "What know you of the Craft, Captain Winchester?"

"Only that it is deemed illegal and godless by Parliament and the Church, though many practise harmlessly and only to the benefit of their fellow human beings," Dean replied, "I know nothing of the workings."

"Well, I do," Gabriel went on, "And I choose not to use what I know, for I fear the consequences. The ignorant, or perhaps just the greedy, may suppose it a way to acquire something for nothing – riches, love, luck, health – but that is false. There is no such thing as something for nothing, or if there is, that is an illusion. In towns, markets or souks, goods or services desired must be paid for, in coin or barter, to the satisfaction of the seller. The Craft is no different: the price may be large or small, trifling or ruinous, material or otherwise; the terms of payment may be thirty seconds, thirty days, or thirty years. A foolish practitioner may not even realise what the price is; a wise one will make a clear contract, and never undertake to acquire what they are not willing to pay for."

"I do not think your need fear that your captain has done something imprudent," Dean said reassuringly, "If she is as careful in her practise as she is in the care she takes of her vessel and crew, she will have settled on a sensible price for whatever she has worked."

"That's just it, you see," Gabriel wiped his face with his sleeve, "It's what she thinks a fair price that worries me. For we sail at this speed with assistance so gained, to rescue your brother, to pluck him from the clutches of Lucifer and thus save his life." He turned hard eyes to Dean. "What is a life worth, Captain Winchester? What deem you your brother's life is worth?"

Dean looked non-plussed. "A life? That is... I cannot put a price on that!" he protested, "A human life is a miraculous thing, beyond price in coin or jewels. My own brother's life I do value above my own..."

His voice trailed off and he let out a startled gasp as his train of thought led him to the same conclusion as Gabriel. "But... do you truly think that she would..."

There was a sudden high-pitched shrieking sound, like the screeching of gale winds in the rigging in the lower latitudes, and the fog bank in which the _She-Wolf_ was cloaked thinned and dispersed like frost thrown upon a smith's forge. Dead ahead was another vessel, dark and threatening in aspect, the crew gathered on deck, and the gun ports open with cannon run out.

Dean heard Ronnie bellow the command to come hard to port, then the _Perdition's_ starboard broadside erupted, and all Hell broke loose.

* * *

Zoiks! And so we get to it. Pay no attention to that thumping sound, it's either Dirty Miranda heading for the finish line, or the three naughty ladies trying to break down the cabin door to get to Sam. Dreadful beldames they are.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Sam bit down hard on his temper, and considered his situation: it was, in a word, dire. For if the _She-Wolf_ was threatened, Captain Shepherd would not hesitate to return fire, and there was a chance he would sink with the _Perdition_. Should Lucifer prevail, then he would lose his life so that his body could go on as a stolen vessel for the ruthless man. Somehow, he had to get himself loose.

He remembered watching Captain Shepherd demonstrate how she could allow just a single part of her body to change to its wolf shape: it was the most difficult lesson of control, she had explained. Control of the shapeshift was about recognising and acknowledging the rage of the wolf, then not trying to squelch it or stifle it, but steer it, command it, make it do the bidding of the human mind. Unfortunately, Sam, who could sometimes have enough trouble schooling his own temper, had not had time or opportunity to make trial of that; but he knew that it was possible.

He closed his eyes and cast his mind back, trying to remember what it had felt like when his body was preparing to shape-shift. All he could recall was a kind of stretching sensation, and then...

The creak of the cabin door broke his concentration; he looked up to see a member of the crew duck inside hurriedly, then relock the door. He recognised the woman called Ruby. Her expression, which had been furtive when she entered, took on a more unsavoury cast when she realised his situation.

"Lieutenant," she purred, "I did not think to find you in so... enticing a position."

He said nothing, waiting for her to speak further.

"A vessel approaches the _Perdition_ ," she went on, "To what end we know not, but Lucifer will be distracted, and this is your chance."

He quirked an eyebrow at her.

"None aboard serve out of love, or loyalty," she spat, "We are a ship of the damned, Lieutenant. In return for service aboard this vessel, Lucifer's witchcraft keeps us alive, or at least non-dead, avoiding the pits of Hell, whither every one of us is surely bound otherwise, for our sins." She eyed him carefully. "He is not a kind master – but if you were to depose him, and take his place, not as an empty vessel for him to occupy, but as yourself..."

Sam gave her an eloquent expression: _I'm hardly in a position to do that right now._

Ruby smiled. "Oh, but I am here to help you," she simpered, "To make a deal with you. For a small reward, I shall release you to dispose of Lucifer, and take command of this ship. My terms are generous. I want promotion to your side as First Mate, and," her smile became decidedly lascivious, "To your bed, for as your First Mate and consort I will be the most powerful aboard after yourself. Do we have a deal?"

Sam shrugged nonchalantly, as if he didn't think her offer was much of an improvement on his fate.

Ruby's face darkened, then she smiled again. "Well, perhaps I can persuade you," she mused, climbing aboard the bunk and, to his horror, settling herself astride his lap, "For you are a most wonderful specimen of manhood, buff and tanned, most conveniently and aesthetically shirtless, and let us not forget fascinatingly tattooed – does it go all the way down, that one on your..."

Sam let out a growl of outrage.

"No wonder those three naughty ladies are forever pursuing you," sighed Ruby. "They will have to go, of course, they are greedy, and would not let me join in the sponging after Lucifer hit you, but now I have you all to myself. I do believe I shall leave the gag right where it is, for it completes what I find to be a strangely attractive package, and in truth I find I am enjoying the noises you are making, and I look forward to making you make further muffled noises, also by your expression I do suspect that given any opportunity you would attempt to tear my throat out with your very teeth..."

As she reached shamelessly for his trousers, Sam felt a sudden spike of anger surge through him as his bestial self perceived a threat, and wanted to fight. He snarled, more at himself than anything else.

Ruby let out a lewd chuckle. "Why, Lieutenant, I do think I shall enjoy this."

 _Steer it_ , Sam told himself, trying to ignore her unwanted touch and make his body relax _, I am in command here, I am in command of myself..._

He felt a strange prickling sensation in his arms and hands.

He let out a long breath, and Ruby felt the tension go out of him. "Why, Lieutenant, have you decided to treat with me?"

Sam smiled good-humouredly; watching his face, she didn't see his hands transform clumsily into massive paws, or the four-inch razor sharp claws that extruded to slice through his bonds...

Ruby decided to remove his gag. "So, do we have a deal after all?"

Her smirk wavered as Sam's smile became predatory. "Ruby, I can only say that I will be pleased to deal with you right now..."

One massive appendage came around, lightning fast – she never even saw the blow coming before she tumbled away, lurching awkwardly to the floor with her head twisted at an unnatural angle as her neck broke with an audible crunch.

Flexing his wrists to restore the circulation, Sam leaped off the bunk, and looked around for a weapon. He had just flung open a large sea chest when he heard a gurgling laugh behind him.

His eyes bugged as he saw Ruby sit up, still laughing. "You idiot," she crowed at him, getting to her feet, "Did I not just tell you that Lucifer has forestalled the damnation of this crew by keeping in a form of life to serve him? It will take a lot more than a mere broken neck to kill me!" From her belt, she drew a long knife, and darted at him, intent on the kill.

The wolf saw it coming before the man did; without realising what he was doing, Sam's arm became a massive and shaggy appendage which swung around, and this time, the claws took Ruby's head right off.

It happened so quickly that he was left, blinking in incomprehension at the twitching corpse on the floor. It made sense, he thought vaguely, stepping out of the way of the dark blood oozing from the bloodied stump, just about anything could be killed if you removed its head.

In that moment, the shudder of cannon fire shook the ship as the _Perdition_ 's broadside opened up. It startled Sam back to completely human.

Grabbing up the knife, he barrelled out the door, and onto the deck.

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By dispelling the fog camouflage and firing first, Lucifer had gained a definite advantage: at such close range, the first salvo could cripple the ship that took the first damage. Aboard the _She-Wolf_ , the 32-pounders opened up in reply, but there were gaps in the broadside where guns or their crews had been incapacitated even as their colleagues struck home; the screaming and cursing from both gun decks were a testament to that.

Blinking against the thick choking banks of acrid gunsmoke, Dean understood immediately what was happening as the ship shuddered under the gunfire from without and within, then heeled hard to port, groaning ominously as the sheer weight and momentum of the vessel fought the rudder. The _She-Wolf_ was designed to manoeuvre quickly, and the captain was aiming to dodge the other ship and present the stern of the vessel, the strongest part of the hull, to the enemy, before coming about and trying for another hit, but she was heavy with cargo, and though he might not have had the same understanding of the new philosophy of the mathematics of motion that so fascinated his brother, he had a very good practical understanding of the impossibility of turning a ship quickly once it was moving fast in a straight line.

He turned to the main mast, and bellowed "Sound collision!", praying that someone midships would hear him over the creak of cracking timber and the sounds of injured crew.

Gabriel leaped at the bell and began to ring it furiously, giving most of those aboard a moment's warning to grab onto something solid.

With a hideous, drawn out groan, the stern of the _She-Wolf_ slewed around, and crashed ponderously, relentlessly, into the _Perdition_. Crew rained from the rigging of Lucifer's ship, landing with sickening thuds audible even to the other ship.

The shudder threw many to the deck, Dean amongst them as his hold was wrenched violently from the rigging. He managed to curl himself into a ball before he was slammed into the gunwales. Letting out a hiss of pain, he staggered to his feet, the _She-Wolf_ bobbing underneath him like a cork in a bath.

The warning crack and creak of tearing timber gave him barely enough warning to dodge backwards as the mizzen topmast gave way to the huge forces at play and snapped like a twig, plummeting to the deck in a murderous tangle of heavy oak and fouled rigging. Cursing like, well, like a sailor, actually, Dean made a quick scan of the wreckage to ascertain whether there was anybody caught up in it.

As he caught up a piece of torn canvas, he heard the deadly whizz of shot fly overhead and threw himself flat. The sound of more splintering wood was accompanied by a scream of rage.

When he stood up, he saw that the castle was destroyed, and where the helm had stood there was just a pile of shattered timber.

"Captain!" he called, coughing on the smoke as he made his way to the wreckage. He lost his feet again as the deck shuddered under another broadside from the _Perdition_. "Captain Shepherd!" He rasped, climbing over the jagged timbers, "Captain Shepherd! Ronnie! Where are you?"

The enraged screeching alerted him that she was still alive.

Seizing a piece of timber, he heaved at it, muscle cording and bunching in his arms and shoulders, straining under his sooty skin, sweat breaking out all over him, until the piece finally moved, and the captain popped up like a prairie rat from a burrow, her face bleeding as she gibbered with anger so that she was barely coherent.

"How the fuck did they do that?" she shrieked, her face white with shock and rage, her canine fangs descending in her ire, "We hit them with the 32-pounders, their gun crews should all be dead! _How the fuck did they do that_?"

"It matters not!" Dean grabbed her arm and pulled her free, "But we must deal with it! Collect yourself, woman!"

Seeing the sense in his words, she subsided somewhat. "The helm is gone," she growled, "We are dead in the water, and may yet be sunk – we have no choice, we must board the _Perdition_ or die." She drew her knife – "Find your brother!" – and bellowed the command to board the other ship.

The call was taken up by other members of the crew; Dean saw several of them burst into their werewolf forms, and set up a terrifying howling.

Drawing the sword Fang, Dean charged sternward with the rest of the crew. Then, because he was Dean Winchester, he caught a dangling line, and swung himself across the crushed wreckage where the ships had collided, and landed amidst the melee.

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When the collision took place, Sam was thrown off his feet like everyone else on the _Perdition_ : he barely dodged a man who plummeted to the deck from the rigging, landing with a nauseating bone-crunching thwack, but nonetheless trying to rise whilst cursing the damage done to his body. Kicking him out of the way, Sam took in the utter mayhem before him. He was no stranger to action at sea, but he'd never seen anything like it.

On the deck of the _Perdition_ , complete chaos reigned. Billowing clouds of choking gunsmoke hung in the air, obscuring visibility beyond just a few feet, with the yells, screams and cries of attacking or injured crew. Above it all, he heard and recognised the howls of several members of the _She-Wolf's_ complement; they were boarding. He feared they had no idea what they were up against, fighting the undead crew, and Lucifer's witchcraft; he had to do what he could to mitigate the threat.

"Lucifer!" he bellowed, hefting the knife and coughing as his lungs filled with smoke, "LUCIFER!"

His ears were assailed by the hideous racket of close quarters combat, and he let out a snarl of frustration. No man could hope to find another in such a clamour and confusion of conflict.

 _A man, maybe not, but a wolf...?_

Doing his best to ignore the searing burn in his lungs, he made himself take a deep breath through his nose, casting for a scent.

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In defiance of the laws of physics but in complete accord with the more improbable idioms of Hollywood pirate movies for decades, Dean's arc took him across to the _Perdition_ , above the skirmishers. He saw Captain Shepherd sink her knife into an attacker's chest, and Doctor McGregor take an arm clean off whilst wielding a Highland broadsword as if it weighed naught. Then he landed in the thick of it like a hunting cat ready to pounce on unwary prey. He was immediately set upon by a man wielding a cutlass.

Skilled in the use of anything that could be wielded as a weapon – he had once fought off a trio of would-be assailants armed with nothing but a half-eaten roast chicken and a positive attitude – Dean easily dodged the clumsy blow from an opponent with little skill, and with Fang almost singing for blood, ran him clear through, pulling the blade free and preparing to deal with the next one.

He was therefore somewhat shocked when the man merely looked down at the hole in his greasy stained shirt, where thick dark blood oozed slowly from what should have been a mortal wound, and smiled unpleasantly.

"An' this were me best shirt, too," he chuckled at Dean's expression, raising his sword again. "I'll make you pay for that, pretty boy."

"What?" Dean yelped. "What manner of monster be you that can laugh off being skewered like a joint of beef?"

"The one that's gunna have your guts for garters," snarled the undying man, raising his weapon and bringing it down hard.

Slowly, Dean had to give ground until he was pressed back against the mast: he parried and feinted, and dealt several more would-be fatal strikes, but there was no stopping a foe who could not be killed, who had no fear for his own physical safety and only had to be lucky once...

Just as he blocked another clumsy but forceful blow, the man was suddenly whisked into the air and went sailing aloft to go overboard with a cry of surprise. A large grey wolf loomed out of the eddying smoke, and resolved into the grim shape of Douglas the carpenter.

"They cannot be killed!" Dean yelled above the noise.

"Aye, we're findin' that out," Douglas agreed, "But they can be thoroughly inconvenienced for a little while, so don't fuck about, barra, go find yer brother!" He turned to grab another of the _Perdition_ 's crew, and hurl the surprised man into the sea below.

Gritting his teeth, Dean made his way forward, dodging knots of combat. "Sam! SAM! SAM! Damn it, little brother, where are you?"

* * *

Where is Lucifer? What is he up to? Will Sam be able to stop him? Will Dean further indulge his inclination as a swinger? Feed that wretched rodent reviews to make her dictate more fic!


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Dean made no progress at all, his search impeded by the determination of the _Perdition_ 's complement to kill him along with all the boarders from the _She-Wolf_. He staggered under yet another attack, bleeding from half a dozen wounds, before he managed to push his assailant overboard. He saw another blow coming and dodged backwards, barrelling clumsily into another body as they both fell to the deck. Snarling angrily, he turned to see Captain Shepherd with a remarkably similar expression on her face.

"What are you doing?" she screeched as she climbed to her feet, "Where is Sam?"

"I'm trying to stay alive, and I don't know!" he shouted back, "I am assailed constantly, and these wretches cannot be killed!"

"You don't say!" she growled. "I did see the doctor cleave the arm from one."

"Did that work?" asked Dean.

"Not really," Ronnie replied, "The bastard just picked up his arm and began trying to beat Iain to death with it." She paused to help him push back a soaked undead sailor who was attempting to climb back aboard. "They are worse than Becky!"

"We must find a way to stop them, before we are slaughtered!" yelped Dean.

"Well if I think of anything, I shall inform you immediately!" she snapped as another foe darted in at her. "Oh, fuck this for a game of soldiers," she muttered, kicking off her boots and shrugging to shapeshift to her wolf form before seizing the nearest would-be opponent and hurling him overboard. The look she threw Dean was astonishingly eloquent for the long lupine face.

 _Find your brother. Whatever it takes, find Sam._

Hefting the double-edged cutlass, he turned and charged at a fresh target.

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Pushing his way through the incoherent brawling throng, stepping over fallen rigging and fallen men, Sam made his way forward, watering eyes squinting against the smoke. He followed his nose, until he was nearly at the prow.

An eddy of breeze swirled the acrid clouds, and in the thinning haze he caught sight of the captain.

"LUCIFER!"

Hearing the angry bellow, the captain turned and offered Sam a smile, his already disfigured face visibly further deteriorated.

"Lieutenant! Well, this is unexpected, but no matter," he waved a hand distractedly, "We shall carry on as best we may."

Sam, who had been covering the deck in long loping strides as soon as he spotted Lucifer, suddenly had the wind knocked out of him as if he'd been hit by a giant invisible fist. Gasping for breath, he fell to his knees.

"A most unusual ship assails us," Lucifer noted, strolling towards Sam, who found himself frozen as if crushed by an unseen weight, "With a most unusual crew. But they will be overwhelmed, eventually. My opponents always are."

"Witchcraft," Sam gasped, not even able to lift his head and having to battle just to get air in and out of his lungs, "This... is... witchcraft..."

"Yes, yes it is," Lucifer agreed cheerfully. "Of the blackest kind, no less."

Sam tried, but failed, to at least raise his head. "Crew... not... natural..."

"Oh, all of them are here by their own consent," Lucifer grinned, "Not out of love for me, I grant you, but each out of love for himself, which serves my purpose just as well." He put the toe of one boot under Sam's chin, and tilted the younger man's face upwards to look at him. "Though, once I take my new... let us call you a vessel," the grin became predatory, "That may change, if only for a little while, for you are indeed fair of face and form, as at least three ladies aboard this ship will attest."

Sam could only snarl angrily, which seemed to amuse Lucifer enormously.

"Now, be a good lad, don't cause trouble," tutted Lucifer, "For I have observed with previous attempts that resistance seems to cause a certain amount of distress, so my suggestion to you is that you think of something pleasant." He began to chant something in a language that Sam didn't understand.

Sam wondered briefly whether Lucifer would somehow sense the mental picture he immediately imagined of putting his fist right through his assailant's face, then his mind exploded with pain.

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 _We're losing._

Fighting to make his way the length of the ship, Dean pushed the treacherous bit of detached rational observation angrily from his mind. The crew of the _She-Wolf_ were putting up a ferocious fight, with any weapon or tactic they could; he even thought he saw George lurking about and sneaking up to dart out to whack the enemy on the head with her heaviest frying pan. But they were all entirely mortal – even the doctor would be terminally inconvenienced if one of them managed to hack off a limb – and could be wounded, and killed. And if they could not find a way to stop the unkillable crew, then eventually that is exactly what was going to happen.

Wiping blood from his eyes, he gritted his teeth and raised the sword Fang once more as another soggy sailor tried to make his way back aboard. It was starting to feel heavy in his grasp, and he only just managed to dodge a knife strike and tip the moist mariner back over the side.

 _We're losing._

 _But right now, that's not what's important._

An eddy of breeze, perhaps the dying remains of the strange weather that had brought them hither, swirled around him, and for a moment he had a cleared line of sight as far as the foredeck. He recognised the shape immediately.

Sam. Clutching his head in pain.

And the man standing over him could only be Lucifer.

With a yodelling yell of outrage and anguish, he pressed the attack.

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Sam had never experienced anything like it before; it made the headaches from the bout of yellow jack he suffered as a teenager seem trivial in comparison. It felt as though a red-hot knife was trying to slice into his brain from within.

He could feel the very presence of Lucifer inside his own mind, stabbing, cutting, probing, battering at his sense of self, seeking a way in, but Sam knew that if he gave in he would lose himself, his body to the captain, and his soul to, well, who knew where.

 _Let go,_ whispered a persuasive voice, _Let go, give in, and this will all be over_

 _No,_ Sam whispered to himself, _No, no no no no no no no no_

 _You cannot fight this_ , the treacherous little voice continued, _You cannot stop this, it is stronger than you_

He let out a wordless noise of pain and futile anger, knowing that it was true: it was a force already within him that he could not fight, could not defeat.

A tiny spark of hope flared, gone so quickly he almost missed it.

 _If I cannot fight, perhaps I can find a way to... steer..._

Summoning his courage, he lifted his face to Lucifer, and somehow, managed a smile; he was gratified to see the other man's confidence falter, and found his voice.

"Come and 'ave a go if you think your 'ard enough."

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Struggling to get his breath back and ignoring the pain from the slashing wound down his side, Dean staggered to his feet once more. He could see his brother, but was powerless to get to him: the enemy was implacable, and his strength was failing.

He had only just hauled himself upright when he was hit from behind, and staggered under the blow, sprawling awkwardly to the deck, only to see a sopping wet attacker grinning down at him.

"I told you I'd 'ave yer guts, pretty boy," the man showed blackened teeth as he laughed, raising his weapon. "You can tell God from me, I said 'E should go fuck 'Imself."

Dean tried desperately to raise his sword, knowing as he did so that he would not manage to block the blow that was about to kill him.

Suddenly, there was a thunderous blast of massed cannon fire, and a moment later the _Perdition_ shuddered violently from stem to stern, throwing his assailant to the deck beside him.

With strength born of despair and desperation, he rolled sideways and brought Fang around as hard as he could, feeling the blade bite through bone and flesh, not caring where he'd hit. He dragged himself upright against the gunwales, and, blinking in disbelief, let out a bark of spluttering laughter.

The _Impala_ sailed past, heeling hard with the wind in preparation to come about for another broadside.

Grinning, he turned to face his enemy once more. "Take that, you piece of..."

His voice trailed off when he noticed that the man was lying motionless on the deck. Fang had cut through his neck, taking his head clean off.

So, it seemed they could be killed after all.

"Take their heads!" he bellowed, making himself light-headed with the effort but not caring, "Crew of the _She-Wolf_ , take their heads! They die if you cut their heads off! TAKE THEIR FUCKING HEADS OFF!"

With a strength born of desperation, he swung Fang at the neck of the nearest foe, and was gratified to see the headless body fall motionless to the deck, then he resumed his quest to go forward, calling his brother's name.

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It would not be the first waking dream Sam had experienced; the chaotic maelstrom of combat around him faded, and he felt himself to be surrounded by murky darkness and standing before a mirror, but the reflection was a twisted representation of himself: the expression was arrogant, the smile was cruel, and the aura of malevolence was palpable.

"That is one way to think of it," his Lucifer-self said, "But it would be more accurate to think of yourself as the 'reflection' now."

"No," Sam stated firmly, "I am... myself. And you are a thief, and a coward, and a blasphemer, and a murderer. And I will not let you steal my body and maroon my soul."

Lucifer-Sam laughed again. "Oh, but I already have," he chuckled. "And an enormous improvement it is, too." He rolled his shoulders, flexing muscle experimentally. "I swear, I am of a mind to hasten to Jamaica, so that I may go ashore and pick a fight, just to see what this most marvellously manly physique can do when it's angry. Have you ever been told that you are magnificent when you're angry?"

Snarling, Sam made to raise a hand to the other man, but found that he could not.

"You see?" Lucifer sneered. "This body is mine, now. You are just a... remnant. An inconvenience. A persistent one, I grant you, for yours is a mind of great force of intellect and will. But you will find ere long that it be preferable to let yourself... disperse."

"Disperse?" Sam whispered in horror.

"Decline. Fade. Ebb away," Lucifer gestured airily, "I know not what will happen to you, I do not pretend to understand the theology of it. Mayhap you will find the Kingdom of Heaven, if you have been virtuous. Mayhap you will dwindle and cease to exist altogether. It matters not. As you will soon decide for yourself..."

 _Sam!_

The sound was distant, indistinct.

 _Sam!_

It was a voice that Sam recognised instantly, no matter how muffled it sounded. His breath caught as he found himself unable to move, unable even to answer his brother's call.

Lucifer cocked an eyebrow in query, and smiled his slow, malevolent smile. "Well well, what be this?" He concentrated for a moment. "Big brother, riding to the rescue like a knight in shining armour? Oh, but this is too perfect!"

Dean's wavering form briefly swam into focus through the darkness behind Lucifer, and Sam's heart lurched when he saw that his brother was already wounded, exhausted, and clearly on the point of collapse.

"Don't you touch him!" shouted Sam.

"If you do not wish to watch the demise of your brother, you know what to do," Lucifer said absently, lifting one hand and examining it, bunching it into a fist. "What would you find more distressing, I wonder, watching your brother's life ebb away, or the expression on his face when he sees that it is your who deals the final blow?"

 _Sam!_

Lucifer chuckled, then took a step back. "Watch if you will, Samuel Winchester," he sneered, "But you were just a man, and you cannot stop this. Your body will rise, and fight, and kill."

Sam felt the searing rage rising in him; the sheer power of it shocked him, and he felt his canines start to slide out.

 _I cannot stop it..._

There was a sudden thunderous roar; cannon fire, he realised, and the strange dark dream-world shuddered around him. Lucifer let out a gasping hiss of annoyed surprise, momentarily distracted by the unexpected assault.

It was all Sam needed.

In that moment, with Lucifer distracted by gloating thoughts of killing Dean, and then the broadside attack, he saw what to do. He took a deep breath, acknowledging the anger that threatened to consume him. "No, I cannot stop it," he agreed, raising his face to Lucifer. "But perhaps it would be better if I did not try..."

He felt a small stab of grim gratification at the shock on the other man's face, and knew that his canines were showing. He laughed, and allowed them to lengthen.

 _...and right now, I don't want to._

Letting the ravenous rage of the wolf loose, he reached right through the 'mirror', and grasped his Lucifer-self by the throat.

* * *

Gasp! What happens next? Will Sam be able to stop Lucifer? Will he wolf out, and lose yet another pair of trousers? Will Dean be covered in so much blood he needs another bath? Feed Dirty Miranda the plot bunny nice fresh reviews to encourage her to dictate further chapters? (Surely we can only be a few from the end now...)


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Dean had worked out how to kill the undead, but his instructions filtered out slowly to the _She-Wolf's_ crew, barely distinct from the chaotic noise of battle. He pressed on, his heart hammering in his chest, determined to reach his brother, calling his name, hoping desperately for some acknowledgement.

Through the haze and the chaos of hand-to-hand fighting he could see Lucifer, rotting face smiling in triumph, standing over his baby brother, who was sprawled on the deck, still clutching his head in pain.

"Sam!" he shouted, "Sam! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM ASSHOLE!"

The dismissive sneer turned in his direction.

And then, something decidedly unexpected happened.

Sam suddenly looked up, and rose fluidly to his feet. Lucifer turned back to him, his face an almost comical picture of disbelief.

Simultaneously, Sam and Lucifer reached out to grab each other by the throat.

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"Well, as I live and breathe," Lucifer managed a strangled chuckle, "A child of Lycaon! I would never have guessed! Kudos to you, Lieutenant. Not many would have the force of will to resist me."

"To best you," Sam rasped back as the strange waking dream dispelled and he found himself on the smoking deck once more, facing off against the man who would steal his body.

"Not exactly, boy," Lucifer managed a grin. "I will admit it, I am impressed, but this is a fight you cannot win. The rage in you may enable you to overcome my compulsion, but it will be your undoing – the mindless savagery of the animal will out, and in that moment my superior mind will conquer..."

There was a strange swooping noise overhead, and Lucifer's attention was drawn to it.

"What in unholy hell is..."

"BOLLOCKS!"

The glob of guano hit Lucifer between the eyes.

Sam smiled, dimples showing in his cheeks, then he drew back his fist, and hit Lucifer as hard as he could right in the face.

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Dean laughed as he collapsed once more; watching Lucifer collapse to the deck, bespattered with parrot shit and clasping at his broken nose, he knew deep in his bones that his brother was safe. Whatever Lucifer had been planning to do was now terminally interrupted, and Sam would be safe. He was content with that, so as yet another opponent loomed over him, he laughed again, and prepared to meet his Maker with a weapon in his hand...

His would-be killer's head suddenly, inexplicably, fell from the shoulders, and the corpse folded neatly to the deck. Blinking with incomprehension, Dean heard a gravelly voice chiding him in a familiar exasperated tone:

"Dean Winchester, your habitual casual disregard for your own safety sometimes borders on the sin of self-destruction, and I wish you would not behave in such a reckless fashion."

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Mustering as much dignity as a man might when he has been hit between the eyes by poo from an angry parrot and in the nose by a fist from an angry werewolf, Lucifer looked up, eyeing his victim-turned-victor carefully. "I am at a loss," he said finally, "As to how you could do this, for compared to me, you are but a child."

"I am a man grown," Sam stated, "In possession of his senses, and his self. You may not steal that. You take your power from foul occult means, Lucifer; mine is from myself alone. And, man or wolf, that is something you cannot defeat." He offered another dimpled grin. "And I believe that you know it."

"Aye," Lucifer conceded, "You are indeed a man of great force of mind, Samuel Winchester. I yield to you, Lieutenant."

"But I did not demand your surrender," Sam's voice was dangerous in its mildness.

"And so you did not. But I shall ransom myself handsomely," Lucifer offered, "You have seen the contents of the hold, enough treasure for a man to live most splendidly."

"For more than a natural lifetime, I should think," Sam agreed cheerfully, "Mayhap the sum of the lifetimes of the men whose bodies you have stolen. And yet, I find I have no desire for coin or gems. I have done well enough without them so far."

"Then what would you have, young man?" asked Lucifer, temptation dripping from every syllable. "A ship of your own? For I have the means to furnish you with such if that is your desire."

"Oh, I shall have that, I assure you," Sam's grin changed from charmingly boyish to handsomely, dangerously, petticoat-rustlingly predatory, "But there is only one thing that I want from you, Lucifer."

The other man climbed carefully to his feet. "You need but name it, young man," he said, dabbing futilely at his face with a sleeve, "And to you it shall be granted."

"It will not be granted, but I will take it," Sam growled, his wolf teeth appearing once more, "I do not want your wealth, you godless wretch. I want your heart."

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Dean let out another spluttering chuckle as Castiel pulled him to his feet. "You are wounded," he began without preamble, "Your injuries must be tended."

Dean pulled his usually undemonstrative First Mate into a hug. "By Poseidon's prick, Castiel, I am glad to see you!"

"And just in the nick of time," observed Castiel, "For the crew of the _She-Wolf_ was struggling, but as you can see," the sweep of his arm took in the _Impala_ 's complement joining the fight, "With reinforcement from us, they will prevail."

"How did you find us?" asked Dean.

"Bollocks!" Crowley fluttered from the air to land on Dean's shoulder. "Hello, sailor. Drop yer rompers, stupid hoe."

"I am sorry, Captain," Charlie the cabin boy came running breathlessly to grab the perpetually petulant parrot, "He got away from me in the fighting."

"We received your message," Castiel rolled his eyes at the parrot's foul tirade, "When Crowley returned to us with your note fixed to his leg, we made all haste to your assistance, conveyed by a most unusual current." He actually smiled. "I was most relieved and thankful to learn that you were not dead, for after you were washed overboard I feared that we had lost you to no grave but the sea."

"It is a tale that must wait," Dean told him, "But for now lend me your aid, for I must... SAM!"

For a moment, Dean froze with shock; as he turned his vision forward again, his brother lifted Lucifer clean off the deck, by the throat, smiling at him all the while, and his wavering vision gave him to believe that he saw two large fangs jutting from his brother's jaw.

Lucifer's eyes bugged as he clawed frantically at the hands around his neck. Then the stinging smoke hanging in the air and the sweat and blood in his eyes caused a stranger illusion: Sam raised one hand, and to Dean it appeared to change into a massive animalistic paw, with wicked claws extended for a killing strike...

"No!"

The anguished cry came from behind him, then Gabriel went barrelling past. Before he could stop the smaller man, he rushed headlong into Sam, sending himself, Sam and Lucifer sprawling.

Lucifer collapsed to the deck and stayed there, gasping for air, while Sam rolled lithely to his feet, snarling as he glared down at Gabriel, who crouched protectively in front of Lucifer.

"Don't," he begged in a quavering voice, "Don't, please, he's my brother, my big brother, spare him, I beseech you, please..."

Sam growled, his fangs showing, speaking no words but conveying an unmistakeable warning.

 _Get out of the way, runt. That is my prey. I will go through you if I must._

"Don't," pleaded Gabriel, as Lucifer stared at him in shock, "Sam, do not do this, it is beneath you. He is beaten. I beg for my brother's life..."

Sam snarled angrily, human thoughts warring with the rising bloodlust of the wolf.

 _Prey. Prey. Defeated prey. His to take. To the victor, the spoils, the trophy, the adversary's heart. Meat under his claws, blood in his mouth, blood of his enemy, prey_

" **SAM!"**

The voice acted like a bucket of ice water upended over him. Thinking it must be yet one more strange mirage, he turned to see his big brother staring at him.

Dean.

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When the bewildered cry left him, Dean saw Sam turn to look at him; in a moment, there was nothing bestial about him, he was just a man, staring in shock back at his brother, his expression making him look all of about five years old again.

Pushing away from Castiel, he staggered towards his brother, who left the foredeck to meet him.

It was a manly hug, a brotherly hug, like a clinch between two wrestling grizzly bears.

But it was a hug nonetheless.

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"Dean, you are wounded!" Sam yelped when they broke apart, "Fear not, there is a most competent doctor aboard the _She-Wolf_ , and I trust he is not inconvenienced by this most inconvenient fighting."

"Oh, yes, the blood-sucking abomination," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "We are acquainted, for I was picked up by the _She-Wolf_ after I was washed overboard during a storm. His cold-handed ministrations will not be required, 'tis but a scratch or two."

"If it is a choice between Doctor McGregor and the naughty ladies with the ointment, I suggest you choose the former," Sam intoned ominously, looking about warily, "For though his hands may lack circulation, I warn you, they are most discombobulatingly... thorough in any ministrations they take it upon themselves to perform."

"I am more concerned for your welfare, Sam," Dean countered, ignoring thoughts for his own bodily well-being as usual, "For it seems you have been through a great deal since last I saw you."

Sam stared in disbelief at his big brother. "But how come you to be here? How comes the _Impala_ to fight and board the _Perdition_?"

"That is something of a tale," Dean grinned, "Which will be most agreeably told over a tankard or two, once we have acquitted the situation here..."

The fighting began to peter out as the crew of the _Perdition_ realised that their captain was bested, and their adversaries had worked out how to actually kill them. Some were decapitated, some leaped overboard and began to swim in the general direction of the West Indies, some yielded, but some seemed determined to fight to the death. From the melee on deck, a member of the _Perdition_ 's crew who had yet avoided decapitation darted out and rose behind Dean, knife raised, prepared to plunge into his big brother's back.

It happened so fast that Sam didn't even have time to let out a warning cry. Indeed, such would have been futile, for it would have come too late.

So he acted without hesitation instead.

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Years later, Dean would still be astonished at how quickly it had happened.

One moment he was talking to his younger brother, the next, an expression of horror crossed Sam's features, and then, and then...

He had seen members of the _She-Wolf's_ crew do it, but it startled him nonetheless.

In the blink of an eye, Sam disappeared, and an enormous dark-pelted wolf was leaping clean over him to tackle the knife-wielding brigand who had stolen up and prepared to ambush him. Before the creature had even landed, one of the massive shaggy arms was coming around in a fatally rapid strike, the claws taking the would-be assassin's head clean off to land in a torn and gory mess at the feet of the body that took some moments more to realise that it was actually dead.

The beast stood up and snarled its vengeance to all within earshot. Some of the _Perdition_ 's crew dropped their weapons in fright.

"I had been meaning to tell you about that," said a sheepish voice beside him. He turned to see Ronnie Shepherd, skyclad no less, covered in blood and panting from the exertion of battle, giving him an apologetic look.

Dean stared at her, open-mouthed. "Sam, my brother, is a, a, a, _werewolf_ , and you didn't think to inform me of this?"

"Well, we had other matters to occupy our attention," she protested, "And I did not wish to distract you with... trivial concerns."

"Trivial concerns? Trivial concerns? Did you just refer to the transformation of my brother into a shape-shifting creature as a _trivial concern_?"

"You cannot speak about your brother like that!" she snapped, "He is entirely in command of his faculties!"

"Oh, yes, very good, he is a great hairy beast in command of his faculties, that makes it so much better!"

"If he had not used his wolf form, you would now be dead!"

"If he had not used his wolf form, at least I would have died thinking he was human!"

"Oh, you thick-witted dandy!"

"Squalling fishwife!"

"Clay-brained loon!"

"Mannish unsubtle virago!"

"Stop this at once," commanded a voice in a tone of long-suffering patience. Doctor McGregor was glaring sternly at them both. "There is a battle situation to be resolved here, requiring the leadership of competent commanders, not the bickering of idiot children! Dean, Sam is in no danger, and the transformation may be reversed at the coming full moon. Ronnie, it is quite natural for Dean to be concerned for the welfare of his younger brother. Now, have done, and recall your duty!"

"Don't fight!" Sam, fully human and fully unclad having burst out of his trousers once more, beseeched them. "Dean, I am no unthinking cryptid. This is merely... one more aspect of myself. I grant you, unusual, and unexpected..."

"And also undressed, I note," Dean commented.

Sam looked thoughtful. "It has just occurred to me that I am not actually undressed per se," he noted, "I just happen at this moment not to have any clothes on." He sighed with resignation. "I suppose that before we make landfall I must negotiate more haberdashing with those naughty ladies. Oh, the promenading it will require..."

"And we will be happy to undertake such haberdashing for you," said MarieLee as the three aforementioned naughty ladies emerged from the throng.

"At a very reasonable rate of promenading," added LeeLiz.

"With hardly any more measuring required," Ranger stated with a beaming smile.

"Just don't have any clothes on, huh? Hmmmm. There's a kind of relentless logic in that," mused Bobby, wiping his own sword as he joined them. "Good to see you again, boy," he greeted Dean with a fond clap on the shoulder, "You led us a merry dance, I can tell you. How do," he nodded briefly to Ronnie, staring her directly in the eye. "You must be the she-captain the tales do talk about."

"I am Veronica Aoire," she replied, gazing back without shame. "I am mistress and commander of the _She-Wolf_. You will find that many of my crew are blasé about going skyclad, so I suggest that you accustom yourself to it."

"Goodly women do not show themselves publicly in such a state," complained Castiel. "I can see your ankles, woman. I can see above your ankles. And above what's above your ankles."

Ronnie's face broke into the smile that softened her otherwise unfeminine aspect. "You must be Castiel," she surmised, "For Dean has told me much of you, aye, and already guessed at how disapproving you would be to see me so – I know not why, for this is the form God gave me, made after His own image, a beautiful and natural thing."

"It is an occasion of sin," Castiel muttered.

"Not aboard my ship, you Puritan," she retorted sweetly.

" **BOLLOCKS! BOLLOCKS! PISS OFF, DICKHEAD!"**

"Oh, dear," sighed Bobby, "Look, we don't use the p-word out loud when that stupid bird is about, it has the most unfortunate effect on his already defective psyche."

"I say, is there going to be any ointmenting?" asked a cheerful voice.

Sam let out a groan. "Oh, God, why is she still alive?"

"Speaking of defective psyches," grunted Dean, "Becky, what are you doing here?"

"Just push her overboard," suggested Ronnie. "It's what people usually do when she annoys them."

"You cannot just push a member of your crew overboard," protested Castiel, "If you find her to be annoying, then think of it as an opportunity to practise Christian charity towards her."

"I'd rather see them practise 'charity' towards each other," Becky enthused, "Being as the term _caritas_ is oft translated in the Protestant idiom as 'love'."

"Of course they practise love towards each other," Castiel confirmed, "They are brothers, and share a strong family bond, as do I with Dean, who is my best friend."

"Why don't you two hug again?" Becky suggested brightly, "I did not think of it before, but when I saw it I liked it – shirtless was interesting enough, but now that Sam is naked again..."

Castiel reached out and pushed her overboard.

She hit the water with a thumping splash, and some cussing from the undead sailor upon whom she had landed.

"Doctor McGregor is correct, though," Dean changed the subject with unusual tact, "We may have prevailed, but there is now much to do – we must attend to the welfare of our crews, and we have two ships in need of urgent repair if they are to remain seaworthy enough to make it to Jamaica..."

They were interrupted by an angry, rumbling snarl.

Perched on the lowest yard above them, covered in blood from the battle, a figure grinned down at them with a face that was a mask of gore.

Ronnie looked up, gasped, and whispered a single word.

"Andrew."


	30. Chapter 30

kathumpa kathumpa kathumpa... Dirty Miranda is headed for the finish line - gooooo little plot bunny!

* * *

 **Chapter Thirty**

Nobody who knew her would ever have thought that such an expression of bereft shock could appear on her face, but Ronnie stared at the apparition above her as if she'd just spotted a ghost.

Stepping off the yard to land lightly on his feet, Andrew sauntered towards them, his one good eye fixed on Ronnie, a wordless growl rumbling from him.

Dean cleared his throat. "Master Jaeger – Andrew – I do of course recall the terms of our agreement, but in light of certain informa-"

The older man backhanded him, sending him sprawling back into Castiel.

Sam snarled and made to step in front of Ronnie, but Doctor McGregor put a hand on his arm. "Do not interfere," he said quietly, "This is pack business, between them."

Andrew stood over her, glaring down at her shocked face, every inch of him poised for the kill. "You," he managed to say, his canine teeth lengthening in response to his anger.

Ronnie seemed lost for words. "I... I thought you were lost," she stammered.

"Lost? Ha!" the bark of laughter held no amusement at all. "Lost, she calls it? Cursed, mutilated, rendered a bestial abomination, and you call it 'lost'?"

"Not cursed!" she yelped back, "Not cursed! I did it to save you!"

"You did it to damn me!" he hissed back.

"To save you!" she repeated, "Your captain attempted to take my ship as a prize, and when we returned fire, your vessel sank. When we brought you aboard, you were dying of your wounds! It was the only way to save you!" She quailed before his palpable anger. "I beg you, do not despise me for it, I could not bear that, do you... do you remember nothing of that first night...?"

"Rage," Andrew rumbled dangerously, "I remember discovering that I was bespelled, condemned to walk the earth as a monster!"

"No monster," she shook her head, "You are no monster. The rage came afterwards. You are no beast, no abomination; you were... you were magnificent, man and wolf..."

He bent down, thrusting his face into hers, snarling as he turned his milky damaged eye to her. "Why did you do this, then?" he demanded angrily.

"In self-defence!" she replied in distress, "After your first full moon, you became enraged before I could explain the circumstances to you, and attacked me."

"Of course I was enraged!" he thundered, "After what you did to me!"

"It could have been undone!" Ronnie wailed, "Had you wished it, it could have been undone, but you did not give me the opportunity to explain! You nearly killed me, then you left the ship, and I searched for you to tell you, but I could not find you before the next full moon..."

'If only I had killed you," he snarled.

"Had I known that you would hate me like this, mayhap I should have let you do so," her voice quavered, and the other were astonished to see tears in her eyes, "But I had an overwhelming reason to fight to live. And I still do."

He took a step back, and she gazed up at him. "Andrew, you are no abomination, you never could be – you are too good-hearted, I knew that the first night I saw you, and you showed me your true nature, your strength and courage. You are not mutilated, you merely carry scars as we all do, inside and out."

There was a long pause as Andrew regarded her doubtfully. "I do not... disgust you?" he asked finally.

"Never," she whispered, "You could never disgust me, for I have seen your true self." She took a shuddering breath, and wiped her eyes. "If you must kill me to make peace with yourself, then do it," she told him, "But before you do that, there is something that I must give into your keeping."

She let out a short barking howl; Sam recognised a summons to a subordinate pack member, a juvenile.

A minute later, one of the powder monkey boys from the _She-Wolf_ came scampering aboard. Sam identified him as the youngster who had assisted with the forge, cheekily wanting to try his little hand at the smithing tools. "I am here," he announced obediently.

Ronnie smiled down at him. "Indeed you are," she said, turning him to face Andrew. "Now, I have some important news for you. Connor, this is Master Andrew Jaeger, and he is... your sire. Your father." The youngster stared open-mouthed up at the bloodied and murderous apparition before him. "Greet your father politely and respectfully."

"Yes, Mother." Warily, young Connor removed his cap, twisted it nervously between his hands, then took a step forward, holding out his little right hand. "Good day, Father," he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, "How do you, sir?"

Sam felt his hands start to tingle, fearing the youngest member of the _She-Wolf's_ pack was in danger from the angry Alpha, as Andrew reached down for the boy...

And swept him up into a tight embrace.

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Sam stared at Ronnie; she beamed at her boy, and at her... her mate, he realised.

"He is... but I thought him one of the ship's boys, a powder monkey! Connor is your _son_?"

"Aye," she smiled dotingly as the boy locked his arms around his father's neck and hugged back tightly, "It was an inauspicious beginning, for Andrew was... is a godly and decent man, and was as horrified as you were when he discovered what had befallen him. I had lost hope of finding him again, but... mayhap a few days aboard the _She-Wolf_ will help him to see that he can be himself, and be a good person, and be happy."

"He gets any happier and his head may just fall in half," opined Dean, watching the huge smile on Andrew's face. "Good grief, I had not thought I would ever see the man crack a real smile, let alone beam like a noonday sun on the equator."

"It is a most happy occasion to see a father and son reunited joyously," Castiel pronounced, "For the importance of family is something that too many individuals take for granted..."

"Castieeeeeeeeeeeeel!"

The warbling call sounded like a battle yodel, something a Switzer mountain herder might cry as he hurled himself into combat against a particularly recalcitrant sheep.

Gabriel flung himself across the deck at Castiel, almost knocking the wind out of the other man.

"Hug me, brothaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" he wailed before bursting into tears.

Somewhat stunned by the sudden onset of acute _agape_ , Castiel stared down at the man sobbing into his shirt. "Gabriel?"

"It's me!" Gabriel howled, "And it is you! Oh, baby brother, how happy I am to see you!"

"And I to see you," replied Castiel, returning the gesture with less chaotic energy but no less warmth. "I barely recall you leaving after the terrible arguments. I missed you."

"I am sorry," Gabriel ceased waging hug and stepped back, fishing through his pockets for a rather sad-looking hanky on which to blow his nose. "Oh, but the arguing upset me so much... but let us not dredge up sad memories. Look at you! You were but a child then, and now you are a man grown, and making your own way in the world! I believe that Father would be most proud of you." He paused. "I dare not wonder what he would think of me."

"I hope he is proud of me," Castiel actually smiled, "And I do not believe that he would be angry at your for your distress. In truth, I do not think that he was even angry at our older brother, though he has embraced ungodly and unnatural things that decent men ought not wot of. Oh, Gabriel, rest assured that I shall always be your little brother."

With that, Gabriel burst into tears again, flung away his hanky, and inflicted another hug on Castiel, who endured it with the sort of stoicism that he usually displayed whenever Dean decided to tell another Forward Ladies With Whom I Have Dallied tale.

"Well, all this reunitin' is fine and dandy," observed Bobby with a chuckle, "But might I be a complete wet blanket here, and remind everyone that we have damaged people and damaged ships that need attention to keep 'em seaworthy afore we get to Jamaica, and," he turned to glare viciously at Lucifer, "We also have to deal with... leftovers."

"You are Alpha," Ronnie told Sam, a small feral grin on her face. "He attacked you. You have established dominance, displaced him as leader. What was his is now yours, including his life, if you will claim it."

"No!" yelped Gabriel, "You cannot do that!"

"I have seen him as a wolf," Dean shrugged, "And I am quite certain that he can."

"Thou shalt not do murder," Doctor McGregor murmured quietly.

"Wrath is a Capital Vice, a Mortal Sin," added Castiel as Gabriel looked stricken.

"If you wish to take his heart, it is your right and your due," Ronnie's voice rumbled persuasively.

"He deserves to swing from his own yard," growled Dean, "If he can even be killed that way. Weighted with shot and thrown overboard might be more effective."

Sam turned to the two people who were presenting an astonishingly united front. "You are a pair of bloodthirsty creatures," he sighed.

"You speak those words as if that is an unfortunate observation," pouted Dean.

"Mayhap I have cause to seek redress from this man," Sam agreed, "But I tell you, you are aboard my ship, and the decision will be mine, after I take thought. Aye," he went on as the two of them grinned openly at him, "I claim this vessel by right of conquest, having bested her captain after he sought to take my life. For now, have done with your exhortations to slaughter. Bobby is correct; the _Perdition_ , and the _She-Wolf_ , are damaged, but first we must see to the welfare of our injured crew mates, of which you are one, Dean, you are covered in blood..."

"Not all of it be mine," Dean shrugged nonchalantly.

"And yet we must be able to see your wounds to tend them," stated George firmly, still holding her blood-spattered skillet. "To this end, I shall return aboard the _Impala_ , and prepare a bath for you."

"You are an asset to the ship as ever," Dean told her gratefully.

"And we shall prepare a bath for the Lieutenant," LeeLiz chimed in eagerly.

"Nay, a bath for Captain Winchester the Younger," corrected MarieLee with a smile, "For he commands this vessel now."

Sam turned a stern gaze to them. "Ladies, there is much for me to do," he told them, "My own welfare will have to wait. Besides, my injuries are minor compared to those of many others."

"Oh, but you have been traumatised!" declared Ranger, "And a soothing bath can work wonders for the vexed mind."

"As can massage," beamed LeeLiz.

"Avast, naughty ladies," Sam ordered, "Whilst you are aboard this ship, you shall follow my orders. And my orders are that you prepare me another pair of trousers. And put more buttons on that shirt."

"Be that needful, Captain?" wheedled MarieLee, "For we do find you such a magnificently buff specimen to be gazed upon in your full manly glory, unencumbered by concealing clothing, which does get in the way of our appreciation of your aesthetic qualities."

"You are quite dreadfully forward wenches," Sam noted, "Now, be about your business as I must be about mine."

He was grateful that they did withdraw and apparently took up their neglected needlework, but he did notice that they settled themselves midships where they could watch him go about his duties wherever he was. He put it down to their shamelessly lewd tendencies, and ignored them.

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Such members of the _Perdition_ 's crew as were left were confined to their own brig. Sam himself threw Lucifer into the cage, and left him there without a word, to assume command himself.

"What will you do with my brother?" Gabriel asked him later in a small voice.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lord knows, he has given me reason enough to kill him with my bare hands," he noted. "But that is not how rational persons act. I shall put him shore in Port Royal, along with the remains of his crew. Mayhap the authorities will decide to try him for piracy, but that is not my decision to make." His face pulled into a rueful smile. " 'Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord'."

"Captain Shepherd has suggested a dispelling ritual, which will unweave any spells or charms aboard this vessel, as a precaution against further occult assaults or traps," Gabriel told him.

"Aye, she has spoken to me about it," Sam confirmed, "And I shall take up her kind offer as a prudent precaution, for Lucifer may be defeated now, but he is cunning and devious, and I know not what foul occult workings he may yet try to overpower me, and perchance pursue his fiendish plot."

"I believe her to be competent enough a practitioner that she will undo my brother's enchantments," Gabriel opined, "Most likely including those that keep him unnaturally alive."

"Then it will be in God's hands, not mine, as to whether he lives out an ordinary mortal's life from now," Sam said gently, seeing the sadness in the other man's face. "Gabriel, I understand what it is to be exasperated by an elder brother yet to love him still, believe me, but I fear that this man is dangerous. If not immediately to me, then to others. By all means, if you believe you can convince him to repent and renounce his sins, that would be a most profitable and worthy exercise. But though I will not seek his demise by my own actions, nor will I aid or abet him in any attempt to resume his evil ways. You must be content with that."

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The weather held fine for them as the _Impala_ led the way, the _Perdition_ and the _She-Wolf_ limping along as best they could with the running repairs the crews could make to keep them afloat. In the pleasant tropical conditions, Dean stood at the prow, skyclad, looking out at the sea and spray as his ship followed the wind. Idly he scritched Chaddie, the ship's cat, between the ears, where she perched in the rigging to accompany him. Indeed, since he had found himself at ease in nothing but the skin the Almighty had given him, the little cat had begun to take enormous enjoyment from twining around his feet.

Ronnie joined him, in a similar state of dishabille, and handed him a tankard.

"Good heavens, Captain Winchester, are you practising to become a child of Lycaon?" she teased. "Or planning to be adopted into a tribe of Africa?"

"Not at all," he accepted the drink, "I am but discovering the practicality of dispensing with clothing in such latitudes, where they be not needed to maintain decorum. Fear not, I shall dress once more when we approach port."

"I think there may be those who find that disappointing," she noted, seeing George sitting midships to peel potatoes where she had a marvellous view of her captain. "But put into port we must; it will take some weeks to complete repairs on my ship, and aboard the... aboard your brother's also." She paused. "Has he yet told you what he intends to rename her?"

"Not yet," Dean replied, "Perchance it will be some obscure philosophical term, and we shall needs resort to Doctor McGregor to determine what it is. But there i not rush. And after all, there are worse places than Port Royal to have to put ashore for weeks at a time," he pointed out. "For the rum is plentiful, the food is exotic and delicious, and I myself plan to spend some time in an establishment that caters to the whims and needs of the wandering mariner in need of female company."

"Do you not dare to launch into another of your Forward Ladies With Whom I Have Dallied stories," she ordered, "For Sam has warned me of your penchant for regaling the unwilling with such tales as would make one's ears burn."

"I try endlessly to educate him," Dean sighed in a put upon fashion. "And what thanks do I get? Why, he gives me such a face of disapproval as he resembles the east-facing end of a west-going cat!" Chaddie briefly gave him a narrow look, as if unimpressed to have her bottom compared to a human expression of distaste. "But I have another matter to tend to, that is, Charlie."

"Charlie?" Ronnie looked concerned. "What about Charlie?"

"I shall take him with me, to the most reputable establishment that purveys negotiable affection, and introduce him to the mysteries of woman," Dean stated.

" _What?"_ Ronnie's face was a picture of bewilderment. "Charlie? Are we talking about your cabin..."

"The cabin boy, aye," Dean confirmed, "Castiel has been concerned about the lad's health for some time now."

"Boy? The _lad's_ health?" she echoed incredulously. "But Dean, Charlie is a..."

"A very late bloomer, yes indeed," Dean went on, "For he remains small for his age – he has not even grown a beard yet – however, I believe that a visit to the establishment I am thinking of will make a man of him."

Ronnie stared open-mouthed. " _Him_? Charlie? Are you truly not aware that Charlie is a..."

"A virgin, it be true," Dean smiled fondly, "But that is not so unusual for a lad at sea, where opportunities may be few and far between. Fear not, I shall escort him myself."

"You cannot possibly do that!" she squawked, "Because Charlie is a..."

"Oh, you sound as bad as Castiel," Dean scoffed, "Yes, Charlie is a godly and virtuous young man, and I do not believe that any man will be damned for partaking of the most beautiful natural act of which Man is capable. If we were not supposed to enjoy it, why then did the Almightly make it so gratifying for both the sexes?"

"Will you hold your tongue, just for one moment, and listen to me, you foolish man!" Ronnie snapped. "You cannot make a man of Charlie by visiting a brothel, because Charlie is..."

"An individual capable of taking _his_ own decisions," Andrew cut in smoothly, "The _boy_ is old enough to decide for _him_ self when and how _he_ shall make such indulgence. Until then, it would behoove you not to hector the _lad_ about such things, Captain Winchester."

"Perhaps you are right," mused Dean thoughtfully, missing the meaningful look that passed from Andrew to Ronnie with much eye-brow waggling.

"At least you shall not lack a competent navigator," Andrew went on, "For Charlie is a young man who has a good head for calculations, and you may trust him utterly with the Master's duties, though he be young."

"I set our heading, Captain Winchester!" piped Connor from his perch upon his father's shoulders. "Father showed me how, and I set the course!"

"You will make a fine Master too, one day, just like him," Dean smiled up at the boy, who beamed back proudly.

"But now I must perform the dispelling ritual for Sam," Ronnie informed them all. "You may come with me and watch, Connor."

The boy pulled a face indicating that he was not the least bit interested in gaining any knowledge of the Craft.

"My word, that is exactly the face I used to pull when my mother made me the same offer," she chuckled. "Very well. Fetch my bag from my cabin, then you may resume watch at the helm with your father."

With a quick shrug and a yip, the boy shapeshifted to his wolf form, squirmed out of his clothes, leaped from his father and shot off in the direction of the stern. When he reached it, he did not slow at all, but made a mighty leap to sail across the gap between the ships, and land on the deck of the _She-Wolf_ , little legs still running.

"He is a fine boy," Dean smiled after him.

"I must admit I am somewhat relieved to have his father also to watch him," Ronnie admitted, "For though he understands the necessity of hiding his lupine nature from the world at large, fie, the mischief he can get into ashore!"

"Were you any different?" Dean teased.

"No," Ronnie sighed glumly. "I recall what I was like, and so I know what mayhem a curious child may wreak. Alas," she grinned, "I fear I must deprive you of your Master permanently, Captain Winchester. Having found him, I shall not relinquish him readily. And you do, after all, have Charlie, your, er, lad to see to the duty." She turned a concerned face sternward, to her own ship. "Neptune's balls, but we have some work ahead of us."

With your third of the _Perdition_ 's treasure as prize money, that will be much facilitated," Dean pointed out. "Myself, I think I shall upgrade the _Impala_ 's cannon. I have seen the damage that massed 32-pounders can do."

"Ah, but you do not have werewolves to crew them," she pointed out.

"Mayhap I could initiate a breeding program employing my little brother as founding bloodstock," mused Dean, :"For there are three most naughty ladies who follow him about whom I believe might be open to consider the idea."

"Speak not aloud that plan, lest you give them ideas," she laughed, "Besides which, your brother may well decide to resume his humanity. I have prepared the potion, and given it to him."

"The naughty ladies may be disappointed should he decide to do that, as he has finally developed a werewolf's blase approach to clothing," Dean noted, pointing to the _Perdition_ : Sam's height and state of undress made him easy to spot on deck. He appeared to be sauntering up and down the length of the ship, with the aforementioned naughty ladies clinging to his arms. "What on earth is he doing?"

"Promenading," Ronnie told him, "It was an agreement he made with his hoyden haberdashers; a turn of the glass of promenading in return for preparation of a pair of trousers, or a shirt."

"Truly he does not seem so bothered about trousers now," Dean mused.

"It is a trait of werewolves," Ronnie shrugged, "We do not concern ourselves so much with covering the body, but deem modest and decent behaviour much more important. They may look, as long as they do not touch uninvited."

There was a call from the crow's nest above them as the look-out spotted land.

"I must be about the dispelling before we make landfall," Ronnie noted, "And you, Captain Winchester, shall have to don your trousers once more."

Dean considered that. "Eventually, yes," he agreed, enjoying the feeling of the slight breeze against his tanned naked skin, "But we are in no hurry."

* * *

Gosh! Will Sam take the potion and relinquish werewolfness? What will he rename his ship? Will he ever bother to put a pair of trousers on again? Will anything happen when the magic dispelling ritual is done? Whaddyareckon? Let Dirty Miranda the plot bunny know your thoughts in the reviews, and she might just want to take up your suggestions...


	31. Chapter 31

I ATEN'T DEAD

Just being assailed by the slings and arrows of outrageous Real Life. Dirty Miranda Flint has managed to dictate another chapter, though, so here it is, before the spreadsheets come back to drag me away...

* * *

 **Chapter Thirty-One**

Sam and Dean watched curiously, standing around in the buff looking buff as they had been for some days now, as Ronnie drew out the sigils on the deck midships with charcoal from her forge, scattering herbs and preparing a fragrant smouldering concoction in what looked like a silver goblet, whilst Bobby kept a suspicious eye on proceedings in case she began to dabble in something of which he decided he did not approve.

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Ewwww, silver! Is that needful? Captain Shepherd, have a care!"

"Yes, it is needful," she snapped, wincing as she picked it up with her bare hands and placed it in the centre of the design she had drawn, "If I am to petition for aid I can hardly complain about a little discomfort – for any such working, there is always a cost. Now hush, I must concentrate, for I am no virtuoso practitioner."

Gritting her teeth against the silver burns on her hands, she picked a glowing sprig of sage out of the goblet, and began a quiet chant.

"How will we know if this has worked?" Dean whispered.

"I have no idea at all," Sam whispered back, "We shall have to wait and see whether..."

"Bollocks, bitch!" the screech came from overhead.

"Crowley!" Dean hissed, making a grab at the bird as it flapped around in agitation, "Do you not dare to interrupt! Come here, you flapping feathered fool!"

"You eat the damned cracker!" Crowley squawked, flying around Dean's head just out of arm's reach. "Hello sailor, drop yer rompers, stupid hoe! Bollocks! Bollocks! Bollocksbollocksbollocksbollocks..."

There was a strange _fleurpf_ sound like a duck down pillow exploding, and a scattering of feathers drifted gently downward.

They were beaten to the deck by a man who apparently appeared out of thin air, and did not so much drift gently as plummet, landing with a thud.

"Ow! Oh, Bollocks."

Dean and Sam stared as the swearing man climbed painfully to his feet. He was shorter than they were and appeared to be middle-aged, if his paunchiness and receding hairline were anything to judge by.

"Bloody splinters." He looked up at Dean. "Huh. Well, you're not as tall as you look, are you?"

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Dean. "Captain Shepherd, is this some prank of yours? You seek to conduct some merry jape by conjuring men from nowhere?"

"Not !" protested Ronnie, "This must be some odd result of the dispelling rite."

"Oh, all this and he's a bleeding genius as well," grumbled the strange man, "Where will it end? It's me, you dim-witted pillock!"

"Well, yes, all right," Dean conceded suspiciously, "You are 'you', certainly. But who exactly is 'me', who is you?"

"If'n I don't miss my guess," Bobby began, cocking his head and studying the new arrival, "I'd say it was Crowley."

"What?" Dean let out a snort of laughter. "Crowley? But Crowley is a parrot! A most idiotic one, I'll grant you, but..."

"Oh thank you so very much, that's rich coming from you, you bloody oik," grumbled the man. "Bobby, thank goodness you are here to provide a small glimmer of intelligence in this sea of stupidity, darling..."

"Crowley?" Dean gawped in disbelief, "You are _Crowley_?"

"Quick on the uptake, aren't you?" noted the new arrival snidely. "Oh, his brain is working so quickly I am clean amazed it doesn't bloody explode, so I am."

"But..." Sam stared, utterly perplexed, "If you are Crowley the parrot, how come you to fall from thin air to the deck of my ship?"

"And you are supposed to be the bloody bright one," scoffed the Man-Formerly-Known-As-A-Parrot, "If that be the case, then saints help your family line, is all I can say."

"This has just happened as madam here was performin' a demagicking ritual," Bobby noted.

"So what went wrong?" Dean turned to Ronnie, who looked as mystified as himself. "What mistake has your amateurism wrought, that you transform a parrot into a man?"

"I think it might be t'other way around," Bobby suggested as Ronnie let out a bark of outrage at being labelled as incompetent, "It's probably fair to assume that this has occurred as a result of some spell or charm bein' broken, not a new one bein' cast."

"Oh, Bobby," Crowley sighed, "You are wasted as nursemaid to Winchester the Thicker, here, chum, truly you are."

"Is this true?" demanded Dean. "Have you, Crowley, assumed human form after you were enchanted to become a parrot?"

"Oh well done, he got there in the end," Crowley rolled his eyes. "You can blame my mother, bloody cow. There's a market for talking parrots – a truly loquacious psittacine commands a good price. She is the kind of vicious old bitch who would sell her offspring if it suited her; it just so happened that I was worth more as a parrot than a person."

"Well, this is a most... unexpected turn of events," commented Sam.

"At least we may be satisfied that the rite was a successful working," Ronnie shrugged.

"So, what shall we do with you, Crowley?" Dean wondered out loud. "For your working experience of recent years, viz, being a parrot, does not immediately commend you as a member of a ship's crew. What talents and abilities do you possess?"

"I have a head for heights, and can crap in a tankard from twenty feet up," Crowley snapped back, "And I intend to make my way back to Old Blighty, so I shall. I shall take my share of the prize of Lucifer's cargo..."

"And how exactly do you figure that you are entitled to a share?" asked Sam.

"Because I provided a distraction at the critical bleeding moment," Crowley replied promptly. "A glob of parrot poo between his eyes gave you just the edge you needed to resist and overcome Lucifer. You owe me, you overgrown elk, so bollocks to you, and with that I shall take ship back home, whereupon I shall call upon my mother, and make her sorry that she ever lay down for whatever unsuspecting idiot spawned me."

"I am convinced now that this truly is Crowley," decided Dean, "For his manners have not been the least improved by humanisation."

"Manners are for those who can be arsed," sniffed Crowley, "And frankly, I am not about to be lectured about manners when we are all, except for Bobby, standing here stark naked."

"I am not naked!" protested Sam, "For now, I simply do not have any clothes on."

"Well it's not a suitable state to go ashore," tutted Crowley, "And so I shall see whether there is anything approaching useable garmentry on this forsaken ship. Or perhaps the trio of vociferous viragos who follow you like hunting hounds watching a side of beef walk about on two legs might be able to furnish something sensible."

"They are at present busy with making shirts for me," stated Sam firmly.

Crowley offered him a sly grin. "I will bet you anything, anything, that if I ask them, they will seize upon any excuse to postpone production of your shirts. I rather think they enjoy the scenery too much."

"Well, for now, I suppose you must come back aboard the _Impala_ ," Dean sighed in resignation, "As you are a member of her complement by technicality. And we shall make port soon."

"Perhaps I might remain aboard, if it is your plan to return to the Continent next," Crowley mused thoughtfully, "I can bunk in with Bobby, oh, it would be just wonderful to have an intelligent and sensible pal to chat with, I have missed stimulating conversation, parrots aren't very good at it, all you get is 'Do you know where food can be found?' or 'Oh, sorry, I thought you were a female, my mistake'..."

"This asshat aint bunkin' in with me," Bobby growled, "Because bein' turned back into a human aint improved his manners any. Anyways, Chaddie wouldn't like it."

"Bollocks to that wretched cat!" Crowley pouted, "She has had too many of my tail feathers for me ever to forgive her!"

"Perhaps giving Crowley a prize share so that he may arrange his own affairs will be the most expedient course of action for everyone," Sam suggested diplomatically, "I shall see to it immediately."

"I want Spanish coin, and gems," Crowley specified, "Hard currency."

"Do you not fear to walk about Port Royal carrying such treasure?" asked Ronnie doubtfully. "It is a wondrous place that I regard fondly, but crawling nonetheless with pirates, vagabonds and low persons who will cut your purse, and your throat, for a fraction of the sum."

"That may be," Crowley smiled smugly, "But you of all people ought to know that, growing up the child of a witch, it is impossible to avoid learning a thing or two. Now, fetch me my money. And a pair of bloody trousers!"

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Port Royal was a bustling, gaudy, noisy, busy and semi-lawless place, catering as it did to the merchant, privateer and outright buccaneer traffic between the Old World and the New. There was a rustle of interest, both overt and more considered, when the _Impala_ , vessel of quite possibly the Caribbean's most dashing and cocky young captain, came sailing into the harbour, followed by two more ships that proved to be vessels around which a certain amount of maritime mythology had arisen, after having apparently seen action against each other.

"Why, look at you," Dean called to Ronnie once the three ships were moored at adjacent berths, "Standing akimbo like a fishwife guarding her stall at Billingsgate! I assure you, Captain Shepherd, your reputation shall prevent any but the most foolhardy from attempting to molest your vessel or your crew."

"I will be happier when I have disposed of my cargo profitably and have the coin locked in my strong room," she replied, "For this place is a most wretched hive of scum and villainy." She smiled wistfully. "Gods, I've missed it."

"As have I," sighed Dean, "For I have many happy memories, and profitable acquaintances here. Not to mention certain establishments I plan to patronise, and not just for the bathing facilities."

"If he speaks one word that suggests he is about to launch into one of his appalling anecdotes concerning rampant fornication, I suggest you turn around and leave at once," Castiel was frowning as he came down the gangplank to join them on the wharf, "For truly they are not fit for the hearing of anyone, let alone a member of the fairer sex."

"Why, Castiel, that is almost a compliment," Ronnie smiled. "The fairer sex, eh?"

"I will do better than that," Sam was scowling with one of his Cat's Bottom Faces Of Disapproval as he also joined them; it was not immediately possible to determine whether he was annoyed because of his brother's habitual lewdness, or because he was, once more, wearing naught but the kilt he had borrowed from Douglas the carpenter, having had no trousers to wear to come ashore, and as it was a breezy day the naughty ladies had been following him around in the hope that he might experience a moment that in a few centuries would be associated with a blonde and buxom movie star walking across a blustery ventilation grate. "I shall shove him into the water, where he may bob about with other wretched turds."

"You wound me, Sam," Dean complained.

"Not yet, but I may consider it," Sam smiled back.

"Stand aside! Stand aside!" A strident call alerted them as a determined presence came barrelling down the gangplank off the _Impala_. "That means you too, you bloody Puritan."

"Crowley, you cannot leave," Castiel rolled his eyes, "No crew member may depart the ship save a brace of senior officers until the Customs men have been bribed to complete the administrative requirements; it is sound practice to avoid antagonising such authorities as are here, lest they take too close an interest in the nature of a cargo, or demand an extortionate amount of money for berthing."

"Oh, bollocks to the Customs vultures, I have more important things to worry about!" snapped Crowley, "I must find a tailor who knows his business, and at once! For although the naughty ladies aboard Captain Highlander's vessel did sew me a pair of trousers..."

"Which activity they used as an excuse to neglect the production of any more for me, I noticed," Sam rumbled with resignation.

"I did warn you, Elk-man," Crowley smiled smugly. "At least you can carry it off, standing around looking tanned, taut and terrific like that for the appreciation of your shameless admirers. They do enjoy a perky chest, I have noticed, and in this breeze you fit the bill for their pervy amusement. I, on the other hand, am desperately and immediately in need of something more fashionable and flatteringly cut."

"There is a small quarter of Continental artisans, off the street of sailmakers," Dean suggested, "Perchance you will find what you require there – the sooner you are suitably attired, the sooner you may cease your constant litany of complaint."

"And a good day to you too, chum," scoffed Crowley as he strode off along the wharf.

They did not need to wait long before two men approached, one bearing a thick ledger, being trailed by a small gaggle of individuals who wished to make it their business to see whether any new arrivals might represent business or swindling opportunities. They were wearing clothes of expensive make and formal wigs; even if they had not been so attired the air of supercilious authority they exuded would have identified them as representatives of what passed for the authority of the Crown. But they soon went from sneering to smiling when they saw officers ashore offering fat clinking purses.

"It be most unusual to have these dealings with a lady," one of them observed doubtfully to Ronnie.

"Then I should present you with little discomfiture, good sir," Ronnie smiled as she handed over the coin, "For I assure you I am no lady."

The Customs man looked uncomfortable. "There are, of course, I regret to mention in your presence, madam, certain fantastic tales told about a vessel bearing the name of this one..."

"And most amusing I do find them," she chuckled. "Would you like to meet the monstrous wolf-men that crew her?" She turned back to her ship, where the crew clustered at the gunwales. "Wave to the inspectors, unnatural monsters!"

The men at the railings smiled and cheered, waving eagerly. Near the prow, a small grinning boy clambered into the rigging, turned, and dropped his pants to moon them.

"I shall give you my personal guarantee that this woman is indeed no lady," Dean added sunnily as he handed over his own inducement, "And as for the tales of monsters, well, she be no oil painting, I grant you, and I have observed her at table and am not the least bit surprised that tittle-tattle goes about describing her as a ravening wolf..."

"Quite," the Customs man smiled indulgently as he discreetly weighed the purses and passed them to his off-sider. "And the third of your fleet," he went on, craning his neck to look for the name of the ship moored beside the _Impala_ , "That would be..." his face paled as he saw the faded lettering at the prow. "Ah." He looked up at Sam. "I have dealt with this vessel before, sir, but you, I do not recognise."

"Captain Godson no longer commands this vessel," Sam announced with quiet authority. At the inspector's expression of enquiry he went on. "You may inform His Majesty's Office that he shall come ashore as a private citizen as and when it suits me. As for this ship," the sweeping gesture took in the damaged hull and rigging. "You can see that she is most grievously compromised – by the time repairs are complete, she shall barely be the same vessel. Indeed she shall not be the same vessel, for I shall have her take a new, happier name."

"I must have details for the records, sir," the younger man carrying the ledger said. "I must note the vessel, and the name of her skipper, you see. It is the procedure."

Sam smiled. "Well, we must of course observe the required procedure," he agreed, handing over another heavy pouch – the older man's eyes widened when he felt the weight of it. "We shall be in dock for quite some time, and I trust the Crown will consider that satisfactory remuneration for the extended occupation of this berth."

Unable to resist, the inspector opened the purse, and let out a small noise that was part astonishment and part pure greed. "I... most satisfactory, Captain...?"

"Winchester," Sam supplied. "Samuel Winchester. Lately of His Majesty's Navy, now commanding... the _Jessica_."

"Very good, Captain," the inspector smiled widely, "All is in order then, and if there is anything you require in the way of assistance to undertake your repairs, do not hesitate to call at the Customs House."

"Thank you, gentlemen," Sam smiled even more widely. "I shall remember your kind offer."

As the two officious officials departed, Ronnie cocked an eyebrow at Sam. "The _Jessica_ , Captain Winchester?" she asked with an earnest intonation. "Who exactly might 'Jessica' be?"

"Aha!" pronounced Dean with a decidedly leering smile, "I knew it! You carry a torch still, you sly dog!"

"He does?" Ronnie regarded Sam carefully as his face flushed. "Do tell."

"A most beautiful young lady, with many desirable qualities and maidenly virtues," enthused Dean, as Sam sent a warning scowl in his brother's direction.

"Indeed?" Ronnie prompted. "Pray go on."

"Oh yes, beautiful of face and form, quick of wit, and, if I was any judge, quite as besotted with him as he was with her," Dean continued earnestly.

"Well, fancy," said Ronnie archly. "How came this decent young man to be acquainted with such a virtuous and desirable creature?"

"Oh, it be a tale like something from one of the plays Castiel so enjoys," Dean intoned seriously, "For she was a lady of high lineage and landed family, the niece of a most senior Navy man, whereas he is but a lowly lieutenant of no notable descent, the second son of a common merchant seaman, and the brother of an even more common privateer labelled by some as a pirate..."

Ronnie gasped theatrically. "Good heavens!" she fanned herself with one hand, "And this... attachment was reciprocated, you say?"

"Oh, most sincerely," Dean nodded earnestly, "But her family forbade her to have anything to do with him, planning for her a much grander match.'

"Oh, 'tis a cruel fate," Ronnie dabbed at an eye with her sleeve, "Such that would force such a maid into a loveless match, a pawn to the ambition for advancement of her family."

"Fie, she does not give a fig for the demands of her kin!" Dean told her dramatically, "By all accounts, this spirited beauty defies them all, refusing to marry as she is bade, threatening to retire from the world to a convent, or even to abscond and take employment as a milkmaid in order to be rid of them all!"

"Oh, _bonum fortunam_!" enthused Ronnie, "For now Sam finds himself to be a man of means, with a ship and a fortune at his command, he has the wherewithal to ask the lovely Jessica for her hand, and damn the machinations of her conniving kinsfolk!"

"Exactly," grinned Dean, as Sam's face flushed beet red, "I expect the wedding will be a most solemn and disappointingly polite affair; one must hope that the wedding breakfast be somewhat more roisterous."

"Indeed," Ronnie grinned back, "For what lady could resist the entreaties of this kilted Adonis bent on taking her to wife?"

"Ignore them, Sam," instructed Castiel, "For they are teasing you in a most uncharitable fashion. I believe that it is a credit to you, and to Jessica, that you have sought to wait for each other, and it pleases me to think that two decent young people seek to join in the sight of God." He bent a stern eye on Ronnie. "Now that you have renewed your acquaintance, I expect Master Jaeger will make you an offer?"

"Aye, perhaps I should have a word with Andrew," mused Dean, "It would be prudent on his part, for the _She-Wolf_ would make a handsome dowry... _ow_!"

"There will be no more talk of such frivolities," Ronnie snapped, "For we have two ships in need of urgent repair and rebuild."

"And much coin in need of spending," added Dean seriously. "And, like the gentleman I am, I offer to act as your escort to the ladies' outfitters."

Ronnie rolled her eyes. "I am not in need of outfitting, nor do I require a male chaperone to protect my purse, since I can do that myself, or my virtue, since I have none," she noted, "And if I did feel the need to go abroad with a man at my side, why, I have one of my own, thank you so much."

"Ah, yes, but for all his qualities, Master Jaeger be not as handsome as me; it shall strike envy into the hearts of all ladies who see you, as I shall accompany you in order that you may order your gown and items of your trousseau, for it be bad luck for the groom to see the bride and such trappings before th- OW!"

* * *

This tale is already ludicrously long, and I think we've got another couple of chapter yet - feed Dirty Miranda lovely rum-flavoured reviews and let's find out!


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

Dean leaned on the gunwales of the _Impala_ , watching the comings and goings of the port as the crew unloaded their cargo. So as not to outrage public sensitivities he was wearing trousers, but he had come to enjoy the sun and breeze on his skin so much that he was shirtless. The fine weather had brought out the freckles across his shoulders and cheeks and the streaked highlights in his hair, and George had taken to sitting on deck to perform her culinary preparations, so that she could appreciate the fine picture of magnificent sculpted masculinity he presented. (As part of her latest excursion into the markets ashore she had treated herself to a new wooden spoon most suitable for backside-smacking, and looked forward to the first excuse to whack the captain upon his pert and entirely smackable derriere.)

"Oi!" a petulant yet strangely familiar voice hailed him from the wharf. "Where's your brother?"

He turned to see that he was being addressed by Crowley. His eyebrows rose in surprise; not only was the ex-parrot dressed in well-cut suitings of dark and expensive fabric, he had acquired a companion. Since it was wearing a collar he supposed it must be a dog, albeit one that appeared to have some Mastiff, some bear, some crocodile and some shark in its pedigree, if its size and teeth were anything to judge by.

"Good grief, Crowley," Dean called down to the dock, "What on earth is that?"

"This," Crowley sniffed disdainfully as he reached out to pat the animal, "Is my new friend."

"I can see that," Dean rolled his eyes, "I asked what it is?"

"She," snapped Crowley, "She is a she."

"That is female?" Dean asked doubtfully.

"This is Juliet," Crowley scowled, "And I have adopted her. In fact, I think we have adopted each other."

"How came you by such a creature?" pressed Dean.

"She was all alone, abandoned, in a dark alley, with nothing to eat but a tailor," replied Crowley sadly. "Poor thing. How some people mistreat animals is a bloody crime, I tell you." He scratched the monster's ears. "We have taken a liking to each other, and she shall accompany me home to England, where I shall introduce her to Mother."

"I would almost offer you passage, just to see that," mused Dean.

"Don't put yourself out on my account," Crowley sneered, "I can make my own arrangements. I am only back here to claim my share of prize from Captain Bloody Winchester the Slightly Less Thick. Gods help us all, now there's two of them. Where is he?"

"He be about the business of procuring timber and pitch and such," Dean explained, "As is Captain Shepherd, for both their vessels are in need of much work. No doubt he also wishes to procure at least one shirt, though in truth it seems he cares not so much for clothing these days, and the naughty ladies are thus treated daily to such pervy opportunities as they are wont to seek out. Also he is much occupied with promenading with them, as inducement to produce him said shirts. But find Castiel or Miss Tsweetie, if you must, as First Mates they have authority to treat with you in such matters. Your departure will no doubt be something of a relief to Charlie, poor lad – I was starting to feel quite bad about having ordered him to teach you to say something polite."

Crowley gave him a searching look. "Er, actually, about Charlie..."

"Yes, yes," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "As soon as I have the opportunity, I shall accompanying him to a fine establishment I know at the more salubrious end of this town, where he shall be initiated into the Mysteries Of Woman; it shall make a man of him."

"Well, bugger me," mused Crowley, "You really don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" asked Dean.

"Seriously? All this time, I thought you were just playing along, nudge nudge wink wink..."

"Know what, Crowley?"

"Because I was always thinking to myself, even Winchester the Thicker cannot possibly be this bloody thick..."

"Know _what,_ Crowley?"

"Young people today, eh? What are they teaching 'em?" Crowley looked up at Dean with exasperation. "Your 'lad' Charlie, your cabin 'boy', isn't exactly a 'lad' or a 'boy', mate. 'He' is, in fact, a bird."

Dean's jaw dropped. " _What?"_

"Charlie is a bird. I've spent enough time in Charlie's company, being exhorted to say something demeaning to all of parrot-kind, to know what I'm talking about. And I'm telling you, mate, Charlie is, most definitely, a bird."

Dean's mouth remained agape. "Well," he managed to say eventually, "That is... unexpected."

"Not the first time it's happened, I'll wager," Crowley shrugged. "If I'm honest, I'm surprised that your werewolf pal didn't tell you, it would've been pretty bleeding obvious to a wolf nose."

"Do you say so?"

"Maybe it's not completely surprising, after all," Crowley theorised. "Werewolves have a very personal understanding of the whole hiding-your-true-nature-from-the-world thing; maybe they have sympathy for anybody else in similar circumstances."

"Indeed." Dean looked thoughtful. "Mayhap I shall have to consider this intelligence carefully."

"Whereas I shall have to consider the matter of taking what's mine, and buggering off in hope to reunite with Mother dearest," Crowley smiled, "And so I take my leave of you, and hope I never see your smug smirking pretty-boy face again. Eat your own damned crackers, and if I don't see him tell your Puritan mate I said he should go and stick his head up a pig, good day." With a nonchalant ease, he flipped Dean the time-honoured two-fingered insult, and sauntered away, Juliet the bear-sized shark-dog strolling at his side.

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Sam found Ronnie at her forge, hard at work on components for the repair of her ship. The three naughty ladies sat nearby, ostensibly performing sewing duties but in fact hoping that she would dragoon him into assisting her, so that they could watch the bunch and play of muscle in his chest and shoulders under his sweating skin, and admire those sculpted biceps flexing and lats latting for their pervy delectation.

Beside her, at a tiny anvil, Connor was laboriously using a little hammer and chisel of his own, frowning in concentration as he laboured over a scrap of metal. As he approached, the boy looked up, and barked a familiar greeting to a senior pack member. Captain Shepherd paused and looked up also, then curled her lip and growled a correction at her pup.

Chastened, the boy straightened up and removed his cap. "Good day, Captain Winchester," he said politely, "How do you, sir?"

"Good day, Connor," Sam couldn't help but smile, the dimples in his tanned and handsome face making the naughty ladies giggle to each other, at the lad trying to be on his best behaviour. "What are you doing?"

"Mother is teaching me smithing!" the boy enthused, holding out an oddly shaped piece of metal for inspection, "I am making nails, to help with the repairs!"

"He is practising making nails," Ronnie corrected sternly, "And a lot more practise he needs, too. If he has the energy to insult the Customs men, he has the energy to begin learning to earn his keep."

At the tone of her voice, Connor dropped his eyes, said "Yes, Mother," and returned to his work.

"And so, do you have a cunning strategy by which you may communicate with the lovely Jessica?" asked Ronnie with a smile, "And so indicate to her your intentions? For you do strike me as a most enterprising young man, as honed of mind as you are of body."

"We do have an arrangement in place whereby we can exchange letters surreptitiously, without the notice of her family," Sam replied shyly. "I shall forewarn her prior to my return, and we shall be married as soon as we may."

"You will be able to keep her in grand style," observed Ronnie, "With an army of servants at her beck and call."

"Unless she decides she would prefer to accompany me," Sam smiled, "I shall rebuild the _Jessica_ into a much more comfortable vessel; travel and study of the natural philosophy of the world shall be her primary purpose, and portage of cargo shall be undertaken at my convenience after that."

"So, you do not share the prejudice of so many, that women at sea are bad luck, an ill omen?" she teased.

"Any captain who had the good fortune to have a woman such as yourself, or Miss Tsweetie, or Dean's cook George, or, yes, even the terrible trio of termagants aboard his ship should thank his lucky stars," Sam stated firmly, "For I have seen for myself that they are most capable in all sorts of roles."

"You cannot have Miss Tsweetie," chuckled Ronnie, "She is my First Mate, and I need her! However, there are a number of crew who have approached me with a view to leaving, and taking sail with you. It seems that you will have little difficulty in finding a crew for your ship, once Lucifer's dregs have departed."

"I would sail with you, Captain Winchester!" suggested Connor brightly.

Sam chuckled. "What, you do not see yourself mayhap taking command of the _She-Wolf_ one day, when you are older?" asked Sam. "For that is what my brother did."

Connor looked affronted. "Not I, sir! When I am grown, I shall make my own way and seek my own fortune."

"It is the way of things," Ronnie explained, "Females will oft stay with their mother's pack, while the young males leave to find their own way in the world. Which you will never do if you turn out 'nails' that look like that! Good heavens, that one looks more like a yoke for a rat!"

"He is a good lad," Sam commented as the boy went back to work, "Should Jessica and I be blessed with children, I could hope for a boy just like him."

" _Just_ like him?" pressed Ronnie.

"Well, perhaps in temperament," Sam clarified. "I have made my decision; two days from now, I shall take the potion you have prepared for me, and return to my completely human form."

"Oh, what a shame that is!" exclaimed a voice. They turned to see the three naughty ladies with wistful expressions. "For a return to humanity will also herald the loss of your late-discovered-but-nonetheless-welcome indifference to clothing," LeeMarie went on sadly.

"Fie, naughty ladies with naughty thoughts," scolded Sam, "Dreadful beldames of a pervy inclination!"

"That be us," LeeLiz nodded happily.

"I am pleased to return your seagoing haberdashers of lustful and cheeky thoughts and deed to you, Captain Shepherd," Sam said, "And though it will mean foregoing the making of trousers and shirts, it is a sacrifice I am prepared to make."

"Oh, but you need not make that sacrifice at all!" stated Ranger, "For we shall be part of your crew aboard the _Jessica_ , named after your so-lovely wife-to-be!"

Sam's eyes bugged. _"WHAT?"_

"Oh yes," Ranger went on seriously, "You shall need a cook, of course, and that shall be me, for I am most skilled with pot and pan, and should you ever wish to find out, well, the things I can do with a pastry brush and a pot of chocolate sauce are pretty darned amazing also..."

"And you shall need clothes for your wedding!" LeeMarie clapped her hands.

"And you shall need attendants for your wedding!" added LeeLiz.

"And somebody to prepare your bath before your wedding!" LeeMarie added. "For your betrothed will be busy with her own preparations."

"And when you return to completely human form, there must be more measuring," Ranger added, "Just in case."

"We shall lay in supplies of the most marvellous materials!"

"Yes, there be a tanner who deals in fine leathers, and I did see a dressed and tanned hide of the softest charcoal kidskin, which I do believe would look most wonderful upon Captain Winchester the Younger's fabulously manly physique, clinging to the contours and planes of his well-muscled body, concealing and yet hinting at the well-honed beefcake just below the surface..."

"And a clothier of the Orient; I was thinking that black sheets would make a most welcome addition to your bunk. And silk is so practical in the tropics, and a dark colour will not show any stains after a good thorough ointmenting."

"And since we are in Jamaica, let us not forget the thing I can do with bananas, which has been known to make men faint from sheer wantonness before I even get to the bit where I..."

"Captain Shepherd!" yelped Sam, "Recall order to your crew!"

"It would seem they be my crew no longer," sighed Ronnie, "For none aboard this ship are bound to her, yet are free persons. 'Twill be a blow to lose such a competent ship's cook, but we shall manage. And I can sew my own garments, aye, 'twas a skill my mother inflicted upon me, some days practically at the point of a sword..."

"And so we shall gather our belongings and decamp to the _Jessica_ ," explained LeeLiz.

"Then call upon Miss Tsweetie, she shall pay out your wages due for service aboard this vessel," said Ronnie. "Oh, call also upon Doctor McGregor; tell him that the Captain presents her compliments, and would he please furnish you with the receipt for his special salve with the most amazing curative properties."

"A capital idea, Captain!" chirped Ranger.

Sam's eyes bugged. "What have you done?"

"A prudent precaution," Ronnie told him, "For as you know first hand, the doctor's ointment is truly a most effective medicament, keeping infection at bay in the most serious wounds and promoting rapid healing – it will be a valuable asset to your ship, and a boon to your crew."

"Oh, I say!" Becky suddenly appeared from behind a pile of timber, fingers twitching as they usually did whenever she felt herself to be within feasible prodding distance of Sam, "Are we moving to Captain Winchester the Younger's ship permanently?"

"No, not you," sniffed Ranger disdainfully, pushing her overboard.

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Dean took the details of exactly what Crowley had told him about Charlie to Castiel, knowing that his First Mate and best friend would keep his silence, and have sage advice to offer.

"And so our Charlie is not as he seems," he finished the explanation. "And it makes sense that Crowley would be the one to know, having spent so much time in Charlie's company in recent times."

"People go to sea keeping all sorts of secrets for all sorts of reasons, not all of them with dishonest or dishonourable motivation," Castiel reminded him. "In this, Charlie is no different to many."

"But now, knowing what I know, I am at a loss as to how I should proceed!" Dean exclaimed. "What am I to do?"

"Be it needful to do anything?" asked Castiel. "For since coming aboard, some three years hence now, Charlie has been diligent and sober, a hard worker, and a decent Christian youngster. And intelligent enough to become a competent navigator. Charlie is an asset to this ship, no matter what 'his'... actual nature may be."

Dean looked at his First Mate carefully. "That is a most... charitable view."

Castiel actually managed a small smile. "I have seen the complement of the _She-Wolf_ , and their captain, in action," he said, "And how, despite their true natures, they strive to rise above what they are, and turn it to gainful ends, seeking to make their way in the world as best they may. Is it so different to what Charlie seeks to do? Think you upon this: what would happen were you to confront Charlie about this intelligence?"

Dean frowned. "Unhappiness would ensue; Charlie would no doubt be much upset, and I fear I would lose a valuable crew member."

"You ask my advice, and so I give it," Castiel stated firmly. "My advice is: do nothing. Say nothing. Keep Charlie's secret. If, perchance, one day, the matter is somehow publicly breached, why, we may deal with it then. But until such time as it becomes absolutely necessary, allow Charlie to remain as Charlie would have the world perceive."

"By thunder, Castiel, you are right!" agreed Dean. "Hitherto, the arrangement has been happy, to the benefit of all concerned. Why upset a comfortable situation to no benefit to anyone? Charlie shall remain aboard, and we shall say no more about this. Thank you Castiel, I knew I did right by bringing this matter to you for consultation."

"That is what I am here for," Castiel smiled again.

Dean was positively whistling as he headed back towards his cabin. He felt that a worry had been lifted from his mind. And the more he thought about it, the more obvious and sensible Castiel's advice seemed. Charlie was well liked by the crew, and also by himself, and was a perfect fit for the role of attendant to the ship's captain – what else mattered?

He did make a stern mental note to himself to ensure that nobody ever came aboard the _Impala_ to do the type of magic-dispelling ritual that Captain Shepherd had performed on board the _Perdition_ , for that would be an utter disaster.

No, he decided with resolve, as Charlie's captain, it was his role to behave as Charlie's protector also; as long as it was within his power, he would ensure that nobody, by intent or accident, every did anything that might break the enchantment that had been cast upon the boy, and turn the lad back into a parrot.

* * *

We're nearly there! This plot bunny will be difficult to stomp; perhaps we'll need to just push her overboard instead. I think she might just have another chapter in her...


	33. Chapter 33

Well, Dirty Miranda Flint the piratical plot bunny has come through with another chapter, even though the previous one has only just gone up. And it's a nice long one; I could have split it into two, as an obvious and pathetic tactic to garner more reviews, but it hangs together as is, and so I present it to you with the usual injunction to review the last one before you read this one. Go on, Dirty Miranda is watching you...

* * *

 **Chapter Thirty-Three**

Sam was in the navigation room that he intended to see enlarged and refurbished to accommodate more scientific instrumentation, frowning over accounts from suppliers of shipbuilding timber, when one of his newly acquired crew members transferred from the _She-Wolf_ presented himself to Sam with a message that Lucifer begged a meeting with him. Captain Winchester the Younger grimaced, wondering what malevolent mischief the deposed captain might be about, but recalling that the despelling ritual aboard his ship had dispersed any malign occult influences, he decided that it would be safe to do so.

As it turned out, it was not actually completely safe, but not for the reasons he had anticipated.

Bereft of his unnatural occult powers, Lucifer's physical health had further declined, and as he approached the brig cell and saw the expression on the man's face Sam wondered if his mental faculties had been damaged also.

"What manner of torment be this, Captain Winchester?" the older man began without preamble, his eyes wild, "What manner of monstrous wretchedness have you inflicted upon us?"

"I have taken prudent measures to deprive you of your most evil powers and practises, Mr Godson," Sam's voice was polite but firm as he addressed Lucifer, deliberately using the honorific now pertinent to the man's reduced circumstances. "That is all. You and what be left of your followers may go ashore as soon as I deem it satisfactorily safe for others that you do so. And even you must acknowledge that you are not straitly kept: your cage has been made more comfortable than you have a right to expect, as have those occupied by the remnants of your wretched crew." Said remnants watched him with pitiful expressions. "You have decent bedding and clothing, abundant water, and grog too, and you and your crew are provided with vittles daily, you have books that I have deemed harmless for you to divert yourself..."

"Not that!" Lucifer interrupted, "I mean the ghastly tribulation visited upon us daily!"

Sam looked confused. "Has my brother Dean been coming down here to sing at you for his own annoying amusement? I shall speak to him at once, insisting that he cease and desist."

"No!" Lucifer almost wailed, "It is far worse than any mere singing could be..."

At that moment, the crew in the other cells of the brig set up a most alarmed lamentation.

"Help! Help!"

"It's happening again!"

"Have pity on us sinners, Captain Winchester, we beg of you..."

"Hello again!" Sam's breath caught as he recognised the ludicrously cheerful voice of Becky emerging from the below deck gloom. "I am back, to relieve you of the tedium of your confinement!"

"Becky!" Sam snapped as the imprisoned crew began to moan in horrified anticipation. "What are you doing here aboard my ship?"

"Oh, Captain Winchester!" Becky's smile widened, "I had not thought to find you here!"

"I most certainly had not thought to find you here," he shot back, watching her fingers begin to twitch, "And before you even think of it, let me tell you that if you are entertaining any notions whatsoever of prodding, grabbing, stroking or attempting in any way to force yourself upon my physical person, I shall throw you overboard myself."

The expression on Becky's face suggested that she was considering whether yet one more dunking might be a small price to pay.

"That is, as captain of this vessel, I shall order some member of my crew to perform the deed," he amended hurriedly, "Now, step closer to the light, and tell me what you have there."

Becky's smile dimmed somewhat as she realised her immediate plan to be thrown over one shoulder by Sam would not come to fruition, but then brightened again as she brandished the sheaf of paper she was holding. "This is my career plan!"

"Career plan?" Sam echoed dubiously.

"Oh yes!" she enthused, "For I am considering a new career as a writer!"

Sam blinked as several occupants of the brig let out a collective groan. "A... writer? Becky, you must know that secretarial posts, both in private homes and businesses and in governmental departments, are occupied by men of modest but honourable background, and there is most certainly no need for a scribe aboard; I read and write fluently myself, Captain Shepherd has Doctor McGregor for such business, and Dean gives not a fig for these matters, being assisted by Castiel if needs must..."

"Oh, nothing so boring as a secretary," Becky waved a hand dismissively, "I have decided to become an author! Of the most wondrous romance novels!"

"Ah," Sam said diplomatically, "I, er, I have heard of such stories, being a recently arisen genre that does appeal to ladies of leisure, that they might occupy their days with escapist fantasies of feisty and high-spirited heroines finding the loves of their lives in handsome men who appear at first aloof and standoffish until succumbing to the protagonist's womanly charms. Mayhap you might earn a small living turning out such bodice-rippers," he added, seeing a small glimmer of hope, "And of course, you shall wish to go ashore, permanently, to concentrate on your writing."

"Oh, the horror, the horror," sighed Lucifer with resignation. "She has made good on this dire threat, and begun work on her inaugural literary offerings, and she visits us every day to share with us her latest... tidbits..."

"Of course, this is not exactly my target audience," Becky acknowledged judiciously, "But if anybody here finds it to be entertaining and enjoyable, then I am completely content with that, I shall not judge the interests and preferences of others. Now, where were we?" She shuffled through the papers, as her literally captive audience made noises of horrified anticipation.

"Spare us, Captain Winchester!" cried one prisoner!

"The writing is simply appalling!" wailed another.

"The prose is stilted, the dialogue unnatural and contrived, and the repetition is mind-numbing!" added a third, "She has no literary talent whatsoever!"

"I don't even know what a clavicle is," quavered yet another before bursting into tears.

"The collarbone," Sam answered unthinkingly, touching his own by way of demonstration, "It runs between the breastbone and the shoulder, here..."

At that piece of information, some of the prisoners let out shrieks of horror.

"Mind you, I thought the sex was jolly good fun," shrugged one female crew member, whereupon her crewmates began to pelt her with remnants of their last meal.

Sam could not help the smile that crept onto his face. "Fie, some terrifying crew of undead fiends you turned out to be," he scoffed, "To be so unmanned by the stulted and uneducated writings of a wench who scribbles out silly love tales to be read by underoccupied women who do but seek some diversion from the regimented and mannerly constriction of a lady's life."

"Oh, I write something much more entertaining than that!" Becky positively bubbled with enthusiasm, "And women shall clamour for my stories! And it is all thanks to you!"

"It is?" Sam appeared non-plussed.

"Indeed," Becky beamed, "For when I did see you embrace your brother, he shirtless and you also, I did realise that I was looking at something that might provide a most welcomed source of genteel titillation..."

"WHAT?" shrieked Sam with complete bemusement.

"Oh yes," Becky grinned, "Most marvellously inspirational you Winchesters are! Now, this is Chapter Four from my latest story. Mayhap I shall call this series 'More Than Brothers'..."

With that, she began to read.

It was not as bad as Sam had feared it must be.

It was much, much worse.

"Is this your doing?" demanded Lucifer, pulling his hat down over his ears, "And you setting yourself up as my moral better! Shame on you!"

"Not I!" yipped Sam, "Upon my life, sir, this is not my doing! Becky, stop! Stop this ghastliness at once!"

"Oh, but I'm just getting to a good bit!" she protested, "You are both about to be thrown into each other's arms by the rolling of the vessel during a most fearsome gale in which the howling winds have torn off your clothes..."

Sam's mouth dropped in bewildered horror, or possibly horrified bewilderment, when in desperation an inspiration struck.

"Hoyden haberdashers!" he bellowed, "Your captain requires your assistance at once!"

As if by magic summoning, the three naughty ladies popped up from behind a number of crates, smiling accommodatingly.

"Ah, ladies," he turned to them, "I have need of your talents forthwith, if not sooner."

"And we shall oblige you of course, Captain Winchester," Ranger nodded eagerly.

"Very good," he indicated Becky, "I order you to take this... person above, and return her to the _She-Wolf_. Or throw her overboard, whatever will be quicker."

"Of course, Captain!" beamed LeeLiz.

"Can we let her finish the chapter first?" enquired MarieLee.

"No!" snapped Sam.

"Maybe if she wrote about something else," mused LeeLiz, "Such as you and Castiel forming a relationship, or maybe you being abducted by pirates and locked in a sea chest..."

"NO!" yelped Sam, "Now be about my bidding forthwith, or there will be no promenading for you!"

At that injunction, the naughty ladies seized Becky and her wretched writings, hustled her up onto the deck, and pushed her overboard.

"Mayhap you should go ashore and be about what remains of your life as soon as possible," Sam said to Lucifer, "For though you are an evil and miserable sinner, it is not for me to torment you on this mortal coil."

"I thank you, Captain," sighed Lucifer in relief.

Lucifer and his crew slunk away later that day, grateful at least that they had escaped a fate worse than undead servitude.

Sam himself went back to his cabin for a little lie-down and a small drink to calm his nerves.

By the time he'd worked his way through a bottle and a half of Jamaica's finest dark rum he didn't even object when the naughty ladies returned and started sponging therapeutically on general principles.

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Repairs to the _She-Wolf_ , and the rebuilding of the _Jessica_ , progressed at a steady, if not breakneck, pace, for the crews were also enjoying the delights Port Royal had to offer, and their captains were inclined to indulge their crews and themselves.

More than once, Dean came rolling back to the _Impala_ in the wee small hours, clutching a bottle and wearing a fruit hat, which he would wear the next day once more for the express purpose of annoying his brother. George would usually be waiting for his return, a stern expression on her face, whereupon she would upbraid him for endangering himself then bend him over the gunwales to smack his backside most thoroughly with her trusty wooden spoon. The next day she would commandeer the produce, declaring that Dean should rest assured that his banana was completely safe in her custody.

Sam amused himself by visiting strange poky shops packed to the rafters with exotic books, old manuscripts and other erudite esoterica. As payment for another pair of trousers, he went promenading in town with the three naughty ladies, who did very naughtily induce him to drink more than was prudent so that they had to accompany him back to his ship and assist him to undress to get into his bunk and the next day he felt so unwell that he could barely raise more objection than a pitiful moan as they went about soothing sponging and brow-stroking.

Dean also took the opportunity to accompany Charlie to an establishment with which he was familiar, and the elegantly dressed proprietor greeted him warmly.

"It is too long since last we saw you, Captain Winchester," she rapped him playfully on the arm with her fan, as her employees smiled and tittered to each other. "Are you here to avail yourself of our baths and our other services? We have lately taken delivery of a barrel of chocolate."

"Indeed it has been a long time, Madam Cassandra," Dean's eyebrows arched, and one of the ladies swooned, "And whilst I look forward to enjoying your attention, I am also here on a mission, that is, to introduce Charlie here," he indicated his companion, "To the activities your establishment has to offer."

Face pink, Charlie gave the madam a shy smile and a little wave.

Folding her fan, she examined Charlie's face. "Er, Captain," she began, "Are you certain about this?"

"Absolutely," grinned Dean, "For it is a rite of passage that all mariners should experience."

The madam still looked somewhat dubious as she took in Charlie's appearance. "And you... Captain, you are aware that your Charlie is a..."

"A youngster, aye," Dean nodded, "But as I recall, I first partook of your establishment's delights when I was a full year younger, though I am of course Adonis on Earth and so that was not at all unexpected."

"Charlie," Madam Cassandra, "You are... agreeable with this visit?"

Charlie, who had been exchanging a shy smile with an auburn-haired girl, replied, "I, er, I must admit some trepidation before this excursion, Madam Cassandra, but now that I am here, I believe that I am."

"You see?" Dean scoffed, "Charlie knows, as do all my crew, that I have their best interests at heart."

She gave him a surprised smile. "Well, you are being most... open-minded about this," she said eventually.

"Now, Charlie, you will not learn anything staring at the floor," Dean nudged the blushing teen, "Madam Cassandra, you see the situation here, is there one of your ladies whom you deem might be suitable to introduce such a novice to the wider world of human relations?"

"I believe I do," smiled the madam, beckoning to the auburn-haired girl. "For we are an establishment that caters to all our clients'... situations. Dorothy, come along, dear, I wish to introduce you to one of Captain Winchester's crew. This is Charlie."

The young lady offered a brilliant smile, and a daintily gloved hand. "Hello, Charlie," she said in a melodious voice, "How lovely to meet you."

"Perhaps something to help create the mood," suggested Madam Cassandra smoothly, gesturing for a discreet servant to fetch a bottle of something a lot more fizzy than what seafarers usually drank, "Why don't you escort Charlie upstairs, dear, and become better acquainted?"

As the smiling lady led a blushing Charlie boudoirward, Madam Cassandra turned her brilliant smile on Dean. "And what of you, Captain?" she asked. "Having completed a long and treacherous voyage, do you not yourself wish to partake of what we have to offer?"

"The cook aboard my ship ensures that I am well washed," he told her, "But as for other matters, well, she restricts herself to smacking me most smartly with a wooden spoon that I believe she keeps for exactly and only that purpose."

Madam Cassandra cocked a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "I can assure you that such a talent with such an implement is not peculiar to ship's cooks," she said archly, offering her arm as she fluttered her lacy fan and her most come-hither smile. "Do walk with me, Captain, and tell me of your most recent exploits."

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Eventually the day dawned when the _She-Wolf_ was ready to leave port. Captain Shepherd had negotiated a cargo bound for Europe, and when the wind changed to blow north, she decided that it was time to sail. She shook hands with Bobby and Castiel, imploring them to keep Dean safe, as he was clearly in her opinion not capable of doing that for himself. Then she sought out the Winchesters.

They were sitting attractively shirtless at the stern of the _Impala_ as they had done so often as boys, dangling their bare feet over the gunwales, watching the dawn in companionable silence, for though their paths in life would once more take them far apart, as always they enjoyed each other's company.

Sam didn't even turn around as she approached silently. "Good morning, Captain Shepherd," he said with a smile, "How do you, madam?"

"What, are you still here?" added Dean, turning and grinning at her, "Have you not a cargo to deliver, woman?"

"I shall be gone within a turn of the glass," she snorted disdainfully, "Spurred on by the tide, and the desire to be where you are not, you intemperate individual. Mayhap you ought to find yourself a legitimate cargo, you pirate."

"But with my share of Lucifer's treasure, that be not needful," Dean smiled as annoyingly as he knew how. "Perhaps I shall sail to the New World once more, where nubile native women may be found living in a state of minimal dress that I must confess I have come to enjoy myself, and the Spanish galleons wallow, fat and lazy and so terribly tempting. Which reminds me, this is yours." He turned and sprang lightly from the gunwale, picking up a scabbard resting against the rigging. "Returned to you now."

Taking the weapon, Ronnie eased the blade free a few inches; it had been honed and oiled, well cared for since the battle against Lucifer. "I have a better idea," she said, handing it back, "As it appears you can be trusted to look after a weapon, if not yourself, I think Fang should remain with you."

"But what of you, Captain Shepherd?" Dean asked, suddenly serious as she passed it back to him, "What shall you have to defend yourself?"

"I could forge another, should I need it," she told him with a dismissive wave of one hand as she turned her face to the wind like an animal scenting the breeze for prey. "It is time for me to take my leave," she announced. "Here".

To each of the Winchesters, she handed a small leather pouch, containing an amulet on a fine chain. They were most beautifully fashioned from silver, cast and detailed to resemble the ravening features of a snarling wolf.

Sam quirked an eyebrow at her. "This is a fair gift, Captain Shepherd, though I be not one for wearing jewellery..."

"It be not for personal adornment," she corrected, "Though it may pass as such. These be amulets. And though she may be anywhere in the world, should either of you find yourself in dire straits, you may use it to call upon my ship." Her face became hard. "It shall work but once only for each token. Take hold of it, and call for the _She-Wolf_. Wherever she is, the summons will be heard. And wherever you are, the _She-Wolf_ and her crew will contrive to come to your aid as soon as may be achieved." Her face softened into a smile. "For though it was but for a short time, yet you will always be one of my pack, Sam."

Sam stared at the small token, then reached down to hug her. "Thank you, Ronnie," he told her, "I shall keep it close always."

"So, should I find a particularly fat galleon in need of lightening, you wish to be summoned to the kill?" asked Dean facetiously.

"If you think you cannot prevail alone," she shot back dismissively, "Though if the _She-Wolf_ comes to your rescue, she shall claim the Spanish prize as her own."

"Even the silver?" he asked cheekily.

"Especially the silver," she sniffed, "Lest you pelt the crew with it for the express purpose of annoying them. Though I know not why I should worry for you upon the sea, Dean Winchester; God's death, you are so annoying that Davy Jones himself would refuse to claim you, and would throw you back aboard your ship himself; fie, he would fain have you drown lest you spend eternity making his days thoroughly exasperating."

"Perhaps when the day comes when Bobby and Castiel have finally had enough of him, and they maroon him, he will have need of that trinket," Sam mused.

"They would never!" yapped Dean.

"Nay, I do not see a castaway's death for this one," sighed Ronnie. "I would predict that he will face his doom at the end of a bed, a sword, or a rope."

"Oh, does the mysterious wolf-witch prophesy now?" Dean grinned as infuriatingly as he knew how.

"I merely extrapolate from available data," she rolled her eyes. "Try to behave yourself, for your demise would sorely grieve your brother, and I would see him spared that."

"And here I thought that you had grown fond of me," he sighed melodramatically, "As it seems do all women I encounter. Shall you not miss me?"

"I may," she replied, "But if I get in some practise, my aim shall improve." With a bow that was an acknowledgement of two captains by another, she gave them one of her most radiant smiles, and a final farewell. "May you escape the gallows, avoid distress, and be as healthy as a trout."

They watched her make her way to her own ship, where the crew in the longboat stood ready to pull the _She-Wolf_ away from the wharf, and into the harbour. Some of the crew took up a song to give the rowers a rhythm as the ship began to move on the outgoing tide, and they called farewells to those aboard the _Impala_ and the _Jessica_.

The Winchesters saw Doctor McGregor wave to them, and Sam saw L'Orleano gesturing widely as he called out in his impenetrable ergot, apparently issuing them with last-minute imprecations to look after their cannon properly. Gabriel gave them both a cocky salute.

At the stern, Connor sat on his father's shoulders, yipping in excitement. Andrew, his arm around Ronnie's shoulders, acknowledged them both, a doting smile for his boy on his face.

"Did her manner of speech strike you as being at all peculiar?" asked Sam as they waved back. "For she noted that the _She-Wolf_ would come to aid either of us. Not 'I shall come', but 'My ship shall come'."

"Her leaving her cutlass with me certainly did," Dean noted, also waving, "Mayhap she grew fonder of me than she be willing to admit."

"Gabriel did mention that he feared she had done something intemperate, did he not?" Sam pressed, for when something puzzling confronted him, he could be like a terrier at a rat. "Something 'godless', you said was the word he used."

"She did instruct me to rescue you and take command of the _She-Wolf_ should she herself become incapacitated," Dean related, "But praise be, the situation did not come to that. And so she sails," he turned a grin to his brother. "Fear not, little brother mine, for I believe that Captain Shepherd is entirely capable of looking after herself, and her crew. She is a most capable and assiduous commander."

Sam squelched the vague feeling of uneasiness, and hoped that his brother was right, and that all was now well aboard all three ships.

As her ship moved out into the channel, Captain Shepherd herself gave them a final flourish of her hat. The sound of singing voices faded as she let out a long, carrying howl that was taken up by other wolves aboard; Sam's understanding was fading as his humanity reasserted itself, but he recognised the tone and intent of the call.

 _We are leaving to hunt. Success to you and your pack as you hunt._

Then the _She-Wolf_ was through the mouth of the harbour, and lost in the dazzle of the rising sun.

Sam leaned on the gunwales. "The _Jessica_ will soon be ready to sail once more," he told his brother, excitement warring with regret in his voice, for he did not look forward to being separated once more. "I am keen to see what she can do."

Dean sighed, and smiled wistfully at his little brother. "I had briefly entertained hopes that, when I found you, I might persuade you to come aboard the _Impala_ once more, so that we might sail together as once we did when we were boys." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Gods, Sam, I still recall the fights, and the anger when you left to take commission with the Navy, and then, most lately, when I found out that the _Stanford_ was lost, and that you had been taken by the _She-Wolf_..."

"Dean." Sam put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You have always concerned yourself overmuch with my safety. I am a grown man now, capable of making my own way in the world. But rest assured," he offered a dimpled grin, "That I will always be your little brother, and you will always be my big brother, watching out for me."

Dean offered his brother a beaming smile. "Thank you, Sam."

Sam's face brightened with inspiration. "Why do you not find a cargo, and sail with me? For I should very much like to have my brother at my side when I am married, and it would please me greatly to have Castiel and Bobby present also." His smile transformed into the expression that had always put Dean in mind of a wistful puppy. "I should very much like to introduce my family to my wife, for though we shall be anathema to her kin, I do believe that she will embrace you."

"Hmmmm, well," Dean mused, "I have but glimpsed this fairest creature but once, and yet I can say that I should very much appreciate the chance to embrace her..." his little brother's face changed from wistful puppy to a face of disapproval that resembled the back end of a departing cat. "I jest, little brother, I jest!" He sighed happily. "It will be an honour to witness the solemnising of your marriage," he went on, "And I shall present to your lovely wife the very picture of a respectable self-employed captain. Well, on the day I can manage that."

"I shall ask no more than this," Sam laughed, "That you but keep your more buccaneering tendencies concealed until the deed be done."

"So, a cargo," Dean was businesslike once more, "Aye, it shall be something most profitable, and I shall spend the proceeds on a suitable gift for the newlyweds, perhaps a fine house in town, as close as possible to Jessica's family, so that every day they may see the grand style in which you keep her, and how happy you are, or mayhap an estate near theirs, aye, so you may ride to hounds and course your pack across their land and thumb your nose at them giving not a fig as you do so, oh, yes, you must go ashore long enough to learn to ride like a gentleman, that is to say, upon a fettlesome and well-bred horse with two bottles of brandy inside you, if luck is with you one of those inbred chinless wonders may demand satisfaction of you and you may give him such a cut as he shall never dare to cross a Winchester again..."

Sam smiled, listening as Dean plotted out his future and his married life, happy to the depths of his soul to be, once more, sailing with his big brother.

 **THE END... ALMOST**

* * *

I get the feeling that there's something... missing...

This loony tale has gotten completely out of hand, with the word count going into six figures. So, why stop now? - if there are any further loose ends you think need to be tied up, now is the time to mention it (though I warn you, silliness will abound).

Before we band together to push Dirty Miranda overboard, leave a penultimate review, because Reviews are the Amazing Tropical Fruit Hats on the Head Of Life!


	34. Chapter The Last

**I ATEN'T DEAD**

It's just felt like it for the last couple of months... let's just say that Real Life has been a complete and utter pain in the proverbial, yea verily and forsooth has it smited me mightily with the Frighteningly Solid Parsnip Of Mundane Reality. This whole hold-down-a-job-to-earn-money-to-live-off thing, I'm over it.

Anyway, we are just about at the end of the longest, and definitely most ridiculous, story in the Supernatural Jimiverse, and that's saying something. But all overblown offerings of positively purple pirate prose must eventually come to an end, and so let us press on to the final splash. You may recall, The _She-Wolf_ had just sailed out of Port Royal, Sam was planning to head back to London to wed the lovely Jessica, and Dean had decided to take a completely legitimate and legal cargo to accompany his brother. Now, let us pick up the tale...

* * *

 **Chapter The Last**

 _including_

 **AN UNEXPECTED HAPPENING PLAYED OUT IN THE HOLD OF A SHIP**

 _ **where it would be expected that**_

 **NOBODY WOULD GET TO SEE IT!**

plus

 **an AUTHOR CREDIT to ahd68 for a truly interesting idea...**

* * *

A few days out of Port Royal, Ronnie stood at the stern of the vessel that had been her home for so long, looking down into the glassy sea. The weather held fine, the strong room was bursting with all manner of treasure, the ship was in excellent repair and well provisioned, the crew were in fine fettle and headed out with a cargo that would prove most profitable. And best of all, her mate and her pup had found each other, and were inseparable.

She smiled, content, at peace with what she had to do.

"I thank you for your aid, and for time to rediscover what I thought I had lost," she whispered into the night. "And now I am ready."

Around the rudder, the water began to churn, whipped into a swirling fury by some unseen force.

She kicked off her boots; they were very good boots, of fine quality and excellent workmanship, and somebody would be able to make use of them...

"Don't."

She turned, snarling in irritation, to see Gabriel standing and glaring at her accusingly.

"I must," she growled, "I made an arrangement. A bargain. And I must honour it."

"This ship needs you," Gabriel snapped, "As the Lady Of The Seas does not!"

"What she does or does not need is irrelevant!" Ronnie snapped back, "I made my decision, and I will abide by it!"

"Is there no other way?" he pleaded. "We have a hold full of valuable cargo, and the strong room bursting at the seams with prize from the _Perdition_..."

"There is not," she said shortly. "A life is beyond the price of coin, or gems, or any such human currency. A life is worth a life. That was the bargain. The goddess provided what I needed, and more besides on a whim of generosity. I cannot cheat her. I will not cheat her. Even if I would, I cannot – if I do not pay her what is due, she will take it, aye, and more than what is owed, for if I tarry now, the entire ship is in danger, and mayhap Sam Winchester's ship too."

"What of your son?" Gabriel whispered. "What of your boy, and your mate, who love you?"

"They have each other," she ground out angrily, "And if I delay, I endanger them also! Make yourself useful, and explain what I have done, and why. You will inform the crew that Andrew is to take command until such time as Connor is of age, and then he shall skipper her, if it is his wish. That is my last command to you. Obey it, Gabriel Godson." She peered down into the intensifying maelstrom below, and swung herself over the gunwales.

"Wait!" Gabriel yelped, "Wait! I do not ask you to break your word, I ask only that you wait a few moments!"

Before she could reply, he stepped back to a pile of sail canvas, and poked at it. "You can come out now," he announced.

"Hello again!" squealed Becky, popping out from beneath the sail, "I am so glad that..." her face went from sunny to confused. "Where is he?"

"Where is who?" asked Ronnie, bewildered by this strange turn of events.

"Captain Sam Winchester!" enthused Becky, looking around. "Gabriel said that he secretly wished to sail with us once more, and that you would use your occult methods to bring him aboard ship with us for one more night of clothes-free werewolf frolicking! And so I hid beneath the sail, to pop out and catch him unawares!"

"I lied," Gabriel said flatly. "So I could do this."

With that, he pushed Becky over the stern.

She landed with a small splash in the very centre of the whirling spume, and disappeared.

"Put your boots back on, Captain," he said, peering down at the subsiding water with satisfaction as Ronnie gawped open-mouthed at him," I would not want you to acquire a chill of the feet."

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Sam's nose twitched. "I recognise that smell," he said, ducking his head to avoid banging it against one of the timbers of the _Impala_ 's hold.

"It be chocolate!" declared Dean happily, "A most profitable cargo. Why, when I return to London, I shall be able to name my price!"

"Would it not be more practical to transport sacks of beans?" asked Sam, studying the barrels on which Dean leaned.

"Nay, for this be not just beans," Dean grinned as he took his knife and levered up the lid of the nearest barrel, "This be something much better!"

Sam peered into the dark gloop within. "I have seen this before," he said. "It is a favourite confection of Gabriel's, though I believe Captain Shepherd does upbraid him for shameless anachronism." He looked puzzled. "How came you by this cargo?"

"I purchased it, fairly and with actual coin," Dean answered somewhat defensively. "And 'twas Madam Cassandra who did inform me of its existence. The seller is most particular about her customers, and will sell only to most select clientele, though what her motives for agreeing to treat be, nobody can say."

"Her?" pressed Sam.

"A somewhat mysterious woman," Dean elaborated. "Beyond half way to her three-score and ten years, with an accent that I cannot place, though it had some resemblance to that dominant in the East End of London. She was attended by two dogs, one a greyhound, and one of a type that I have seen shepherds use to herd their sheep in the Germanic areas to the north of France, both much inclined to greet me as a friend. Much occupied with writing, she seemed, for there were great piles of paper on a desk, covered in script..."

"I wonder what she writes," mused Sam.

"I did ask her," Dean told him, "And yet she did but give me an enigmatic smile, and answer only that she was by employment a type of alchemist and natural philosopher, making no gain from her writing labours but her own amusement, intent only on entertaining any who would care to read her silly scribblings."

"How comes such a person to deal in such large quantities of anachronistic confectionery?" wondered Sam, levering up the lid of another barrel and half expecting to see Gabriel pop up out of it. "Oh my word, this one has... what on earth are those things bobbing about in it?"

"Ah, those be confections of Afric extraction," Dean told him, "Algerian egg comfits, she did term them, though in this land made from syrup derived from the plant called marshmallow. Taste one, they are very sweet. I should like George to try some of these on a pie sometime."

Sam carefully plucked one of the bobbing marshmallows from the top of the barrel, and tasted it, making a face. "Oh, 'tis indeed overly sweet," he complained, "Such a confection cannot be condusive to good health, had I children I should encourage them to snack upon such items as carrot or apples, which Doctor McGregor deemed most efficacious in preventing various deficiencies of growth and development. How came this person by the recipe for these 'marshmallows'?"

"I know not," Dean shrugged, "But once I tasted them, and the chocolate, and she named a most reasonable price, I knew I had to acquire it."

"I like it not," Sam muttered, "For alchemists are halfway to witchcraft at the best of times, and I fear that this person may seek to wreak some havoc in your fate."

"Fear not," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "For I did ask her most directly about such matters. She assured me that she is no practitioner of dark arts, and that the only ritual she practises is the Rite of Fick. Which, I suppose, would make her a Fick-Riter."

Sam looked confused. "What on earth is that?"

"I have no idea," shrugged Dean. "Indeed, 'tis a pity we cannot ask Doctor McGregor, since he be a most well-read and educated man. But worry not, I have done as you exhorted, have I not?" He opened another barrel by way of demonstration: Sam peered into it and saw that it was full of what appeared to be multi-coloured coarse sand. "Look at this! It is called 'sprinkles', another form of confection, resembling sand and yet made of sugar, and highly sought as a decorative ingredient. Oh yes, this cargo will fetch a pretty penny. I believe Mistress Amanda of the Nevada will offer me a good price on the chocolate, for on occasion she has used a dessert sauce to..."

"Do you not dare embark upon another Forward Women With Whom I Have Dallied story!" snapped Sam. "I wish to hear it not!"

"Oh, Sam, Sam, where did I go wrong with you?" sighed Dean, gazing longingly into the chocolate. "Forsooth, even Charlie has now been initiated into the Mysteries Of Woman. And enjoyed it immensely, if the enormous smile was anything to judge by..."

"I will remind you that I am to be married as soon as I may contrive," Sam snapped, "And have no intention of debauching myself beforehand."

"Ah, then you shall wish to debauch yourself with your good lady wife!" Dean noted brightly, eyebrows waggling as he grinned as annoyingly as he knew how, "To which end, I shall reserve a small cask of this most marvellous concoction to present to your upon the occasion of your marriage, whereupon you may deploy it on your wedding night to the desportment of your good selves upon celebration of the nuptials..."

Sam let out a roar of outrage at his brother's lewd insinuations and prepared to launch himself at Dean, initiating one of the wrestling matches in which they had grappled over various disagreements since they were children, when suddenly...

A large wave travelled into the harbour and buffeted all the vessels at berth in the port!

Sam lost his balance mid-launch, and stumbled into his brother, who was also thrown off balance by the sudden and unexpected heeling of the _Impala_.

Tossed as they were by the abrupt turbulence of the ship beneath them, they landed, like two divers perfectly synchronised, head-first into the barrels of chocolate, whereupon the barrels rocked and toppled, leaving them covered head to foot in the gooey brown slush and slithering about on the deck.

The Impala rolled back the other way, which upset the barrel of sprinkles; within moments they were sticking to the Winchesters, coating them in the colourful confection.

"What... what just happened?" yelped Sam, spitting out a marshmallow.

"Some bizarre phenomenon of sea conditions did roll the ship," answered Dean, looking down at himself, then stickily getting to his feet. "I have seen such things before; I believe that natural philosophers of the Orient have ascribed such phenomena to earthquakes taking place under the ocean." He poked at the brown sugary coating he had acquired. "Fie, I am covered from head to foot in this, this, this chocolate!"

"As am I!" Sam complained, "And festooned all about with marshmallows! Oh, the sprinkles do stick to me!"

"I curse my decision to go shirtless today," griped Dean, poking at the sticky mess.

"I do also," sighed Sam, grimacing as he examine a strand of his hair. "Oh, it be in my hair! How on earth are we to cleanse ourselves of this mess? For I believe this confection to be fat-based, and thus a quick dip overboard will do naught but make it set harder..."

At that moment, the three naughty ladies, accompanied by George, made their entrance.

"Oh, silly captains," sighed Ranger, "To get yourselves all covered in chocolate."

"And decorated with marshmallows," noted LeeLiz, deftly plucking one from Sam's arm.

"Not forgetting the sprinkles," added MarieLee, prodding at Sam's chest then tasting the glob that came away. "Although there could be a market for this."

"Fear not, for we are here to assist you in performing appropriate ablutions," George stated firmly, taking Dean by the arm. "With my cookery background, I can confirm that, as Captain Winchester the Younger has surmised, this stuff cannot be removed with cold water. Body heat at the very least is required."

"And we shall see that you are thoroughly cleansed," smiled MarieLee.

Sam let out a little shriek as LeeLiz leaned in and licked an experimental stripe up his back. "Hmmm, most tasty," she described, "And body heat does indeed appear to work."

"Come along, Captain," Ranger instructed, taking hold of one of Sam's chocolate coated arm, "We shall accompany you back to your own vessel, where we shall remove this most vexing for you and yet thoroughly entertaining for us contamination."

"As I shall oversee your washing myself," stated George, laying hold of Dean's arm and steering him firmly towards the hatch, "For it cannot be healthy to have the pores blocked like this. Come this way, Captain, and I shall prepare your bath-tub immediately."

And so Sam was promenaded with extreme prejudice back to his own ship, where the three naughty ladies did make good on their undertaking to remove the chocolate. The rest of the crew were about the business of rebuilding and refurbishing the ship, so they did not hear the slurping sounds or the occasional scream coming from his cabin. Or, if they did, they ignored them. After removing the majority of the claggy confection, they hustled him into a nice soapy bath, and afterwards gave him a good therapeutic ointmenting just in case.

George sat Dean in his bathing tub and insisted that she wield the washing cloth herself this time, as he could not get to the sticky stuff that was everywhere, and he required her assistance to soak his trousers off. There were many changes of bath water. And a lot of scrubbing required. A crew member named Jeannie handed her the washcloths.

Chaddie the ship's cat came along to watch the entire proceedings with great interest, quite astonishing really since cats are true carnivores and have lost any taste receptors for sweetness they ever had and as a result are not attracted to sugar-based foodstuffs like chocolate and marshmallows, so goodness knows what she found so interesting.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Both the Winchesters survived being chocolate-coated and then cleaned, and set sail headed for home.

Sam and the lovely Jessica were duly married before a small group of friends, to the outrage of her family. A cousin of high connections and low intelligence turned up to demand satisfaction from the upstart who was intent on wedding the flower of the Moore branch of the clan, but took one look at Sam then turned tail and fled. Dean made good on his threat to reserve a cask of the strange and wonderful chocolate confection to give to them as a wedding gift, with much eyebrow-waggling. Jessica claimed it, and used it to make small sweet biscuits, to the bewilderment of the cook who was most astonished to see the lady of the house take to the kitchen to bake her husband sweet treats with her own fair hands. Sam purchased for his new bride a most wonderfully appointed house on Fleet Street, where she could live in very fine style, to the seething envy of her relatives, who gritted their teeth and paid visits to her so that they could carry tales back to their families of the rich furnishings and beautiful clothes that this Captain Winchester provided for his wife. However, she spent much of her time at sea with her husband, exploring new and strange areas of the world and reporting on the exotic flora and fauna to be found across the wider world. As they aged and a life at sea began to catch up with Sam, they returned ashore to their house, to dote upon their grandchildren; their eldest daughter Frances Mary, who had been born at sea in the teeth of a gale, took command of the _Jessica_ and sailed to seek her own fortune.

Dean never married, but continued to sail, drink and fornicate his way around the globe many times, with Castiel and Bobby to keep him mostly out of trouble. He never settled in one place, but stayed at sea his whole life. During one visit back to Port Royal, Madam Cassandra introduced him to a young boy named Robert John, with the revelation that he was Dean's offspring. Dean promised to visit again as soon has he was back in the West Indies, but three days into his next voyage found that the child had stowed away aboard the _Impala_ , professing a desire to be a sailor. He grew up on board, although his mother gave Dean a most dreadful scolding next time he was ashore on Jamaica to the point where he could not sit down for two days.

The oceans of the world are vast; the _Impala_ did only encounter the _She-Wolf_ a few times more. On each but the last occasion, he and Captain Shepherd and Master Jaeger drank together over one of George's excellent dinners, teasing each other mercilessly over how grey they had all become, as Dean marvelled that Doctor McGregor had changed not at all. The last time was many years again after that; Dean, still ruggedly handsome though an old greybeard himself who had outlived so many who had predicted that his life would end at the end of a plank or a rope a score of years earlier, was somewhat saddened to find that the ship was now skippered by Sabine, their daughter, as canny and competent a captain as her mother had been, and together they poured a bottle of Ronnie's favourite rum into the sea in remembrance of friends sailed on ahead.

Nobody knew exactly what became of Becky after Gabriel sacrificed her to the Lady Of The Sea as payment rendered. However, rumour began to spread about a remote island where an evil and terrible witch lived; it would have been a tropical paradise except for this hideous harridan who amused herself by tormenting shipwrecked sailors. The tale may have started when a mariner who fell overboard during a storm was washed up on its shores, and when later rescued he told a gibbering tale of a woman who produced diabolical writings, attended by a colourful female parrot who crapped on people's heads and screeched "WEE SAUSAGE! WEE SAUSAGE!" constantly. She worked her dreadful spells by talking to a coconut adorned with a luxuriant wig made of coir fibre, addressing it as 'Sam'. There were whispered accounts of horrible stories, terrible grammar, trite language and stilted expression, which said a lot since he was illiterate. Captains found it a usefully ominous threat to hint that any crew who behaved badly would be left on Wincest Island for two weeks. The ones who were put ashore there to think about their conduct always emerged from the experience contrite and promising to be better behaved.

Lucifer spent what was left of his life trying not to be completely evil, in case somebody came along and sent him to that island.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Ashore in Port Royal, a middle-aged woman sighed, laid down her quill, and reached down to scratch her dog's ears; she peered down at the small Narrative Causation Fairy perched on the edge of the ink well.

"Will that do?" she enquired.

"Yes, I think that shall do nicely," the Narrative Causation Fairy smiled up at her. "The shirtlessness was a nice touch. You know your audience."

"I found that tsunami as a plot device terribly contrived," the woman went on in disapproval, "And Gabriel is right, chocolate shall not be compounded via conching into that sort of a confectionery for another hundred years or so. And do not get me started on mass production of decorative sprinkles."

"And yet, you provide," laughed the fairy, brandishing her little wand, "In order to solicit that which you seek."

"I am unwell," muttered the woman, "I suffer from an addiction. Do not judge me, for I have a disease."

"Which I now cater to, as per our agreement." The fairy waved her want, and three glowing opalescent jewels appeared on the ink-stained desk.

The woman stared at them. "I was hoping for one or two more?..." she proposed hopefully. "For in earlier times, I have been able to anticipate at least ten of these per chapter."

"Times change, as does your audience," chuckled the fairy. "They may not be many, but yet they are genuine and authentic."

"You are right, of course," the woman at the desk smiled, "And I thank you."

The fairy bowed, then took wing, leaving a little trail of sparkles in the air as she vanished.

Smiling with satisfaction, the woman scooped up the beautiful gems, and deposited them in the large jar labelled REVIEWS. She returned the jar to the mantelpiece, then took a kettle from the fire to make herself a cup of tea before seating herself on a chaise longue. The dogs joined her, the greyhound curled up beside her and the Germanic herding dog at her feet, as she enjoyed her tea, and regarded her collection of reviews with evident satisfaction. Idly she wondered how long it would be before the next plot bunny came along, and what it would look like.

Whatever it was, she suspected that it would involve WUGN – Winchester Undress of a Gratuitous Nature. They usually did, in the end. It was one of Fick's little mysteries.

 **THE END. NO, REALLY.**

* * *

Wait for it... wait for it... aaaaaaand, one, two, three!

 _SPLASH!_

And so we farewell Dirty Miranda Flint the purple pirate prose plot bunny, who was quite possibly the most ridiculous plot bunny the Jimiverse has ever taken dictation from, yo ho ho.

The plot bunny hutch truly is empty for the nonce, but I suspect that the Denizens may have some ideas; you never know, one of them might mature into something we can use. Meanwhile, leave lovely reviews as a fitting send-off for the most long-winded plot bunny we've ever had here in the Jimiverse, because Reviews Are The Winchester Of Your Choice Coated In Chocolate And Rolled In Sprinkles In The Ship's Hold Of Life!*

*Anybody who is not inclined to such Denizenesque depravity may join me over there on the couch, for tea and some lovely chokky chip bikkies.


End file.
